Fire and Ice
by emptycel
Summary: The Aerial Corp is corrupt, the Riders are rebels fighting for dragon's rights, and John and Sherlock are caught up in the middle of that mess. (Or, the AU where Sherlock and John have dragons and everything around them is falling to pieces.)
1. Chapter 1

(A/N: This is sort of a spiritual crossover with Naomi Novak's _In His Majesty's Service_ series, colloquially known as the Temeraire books. The concept of the Aerial Corp was taken from that series, as well as most of the dynamics of dragons in society. I didn't put it in crossover because those are literally the only things borrowed, this story does not take place in that universe. The poem in the beginning is Robert Frost's overused 'Fire and Ice'. I took my title from the poem, obviously, and thought I would include it. This work is not beta'd, any errors are my own.)

_Some say the world will end in fire, _

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if I had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice._

John heard the commotion before he saw it.

He pushed through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of what was causing such an enormous spectacle.

Was that...?

Jesus, it was.

"Johnny!" Harry's voice broke over the din. "Johnny, come over here!"

John tore his gaze away and located his sister in the crowd. He elbowed his way through until he was standing next to her.

"What is a dragon egg doing in the middle of campus?" John asked her. "How long has it been here?"

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "It was sitting here when the dismissal bell rang. No one has had the guts to touch it yet."

"Why?" John asked.

Harry looked at him like he was an idiot. "In case it's a Spitter, of course. Really, John. Duh."

John rolled his eyes. Of course, a Spitter. A dragon known for spraying acid when threatened. The shells of their eggs were coated in an enzyme that was capable of rapidly dissolving anything organic. No one wanted to risk losing a hand.

"Mrs. Ross alerted the Aerial Corp," Harry informed him. "They said they'd be here in about an hour, and you know, try to find a captain for it."

John's gaze wandered back to the red dragon egg. God, it was lovely. And huge, about a meter tall and nearly as wide. The surface was faceted, like that of a ruby. Absolutely gorgeous.

John's fingers twitched, itching to reach out and touch...

Before he really realized what he was doing, he had pushed to the front of the crowd. The students had instinctively left a good two meters of space around the egg, but John stepped forward until he stood right in front of it.

"Get back Watson!"

"What are you doing, you idiot? Get back here!"

"It could be a Spitter!"

But no one actually moved to pull him back.

"Hello," John said softly, able to make out slow, tiny movements beneath the shell. "My name is John. You must be getting cold. London isn't exactly known for its warm autumn."

The dark shape within the egg twisted more energetically as he spoke. Without thinking, John shed his jacket and sat on the ground next to the egg. He bundled it up in his coat and pulled it into his lap.

"What do you think you're doing, Watson? Do you think you're gonna be its momma?"

"Don't let the Aerial Corp see you do that. They'll be pissed."

Still, no one could bring themselves to move forward.

John ignored the voices and curled himself around the egg.

"Don't worry," he told the little hatchling inside. "I'm not scared of you. And I'm here now. It's okay. I heard you calling and I'm here now."

While John couldn't explicitly remember hearing the egg call for him, he knew that the statement was one hundred percent true. The egg had asked him to come forward, and he had obeyed.

Someone else took a tentative step forward, intending to reach for the egg, but John instinctively pulled back, putting himself between the egg and the student.

"Stay back," he warned, cradling the egg protectively. "She's mine."

… …

Sherlock crept into the study, his heart hammering in his chest and excited fear coiling in his stomach. He wondered if there was any way for him to get into more trouble. He honestly didn't think that there was. He was fairly certain that committing murder would have less severe consequences than what he was about to do.

"Neige stopped brooding," Sherlock informed the nest sadly. "She won't take care of you anymore. You're going to be sent to the Aerial Corp and be made into soldiers."

The crystalline eggs were silent. The diamond-like exterior reflected his own face back at him, the facets showing a thousand pairs of silver-blue eyes.

"I never liked Neige," Sherlock confided of his brother's dragon. "Your brood mare is volatile and unfeeling. She only desires her own advancement. Personally, I think she was just waiting for the chance to abandon you three."

One egg began to shift. Sherlock focused his gaze on that one, the smallest in the nest.

"I don't want to be a soldier," he told the egg. "But I was going to join the Corp for the dragons. I love them. They're endlessly fascinating. If you want to come with me, we don't have to fight. We can study and research and learn all day long and no one could stop us."

The dark shape within the egg shifted again. Sherlock reached for the egg without thinking about his actions. He pulled egg, about a meter tall and a meter and a half wide, towards him, wrapping his arms around as much as he could.

"I would get in trouble," he told the egg. "Mycroft would never forgive me for stealing you. We would have to run. We would have to hide. Civilians aren't supposed to own dragons, we would never be safe." He felt is best to be honest with the egg. There was no point in this if the dragon eventually left him.

The hatchling shifted energetically within the confines of its shell.

"Excited? Do you like danger? I do." Sherlock let himself smile as the egg began to rock back and forth slightly. "I choose you, if you choose me. We could solve crimes together. No criminals would be safe from us, the consulting detective and his dragon. We would be unstoppable partners. And best friends."

Sherlock was breathless as the egg continued to rock. "This is going to be brilliant," he informed the baby dragon.

… …

"I'll take care of you as long as I can," John told the egg as time passed. "But the Aerial Corp is coming. I won't be able to stay with you."

The egg began to rock back and forth. The crowd surrounding him gasped in unison.

John's heart thudded, his jaw dropping in disbelief. "Are you...are you hatching for me?"

The egg started rocking more violently. Sharp tapping noises were coming from the inside.

Dragons chose their captains. Everyone knew that. Newborn dragons would only let those they deemed worthy put a harness on them. But John had never heard of a dragon _hatching _for a person.

"Come on," John urged, breathless with excitement. "Come on, I'm right here. I'm right here for you. I'll take care of you.

A small crack appeared on the surface of the egg. Another sharp tap and it grew. Then, finally, a long black claw broke through the shell of the egg. The claw pulled back for a moment, but it was soon followed by the hatchling's head as it decided to just ram its way to freedom.

"Hard headed," John joked quietly. "No wonder you like me."

The hatchling's body followed the head, pulling itself out of the shattered remains of its shell. _Her _shell, John realized in the back of his mind. The hatchling was female.

And she was gorgeous, deep scarlet scales, a long, thin, graceful tail, a stockier, stronger body, big amber eyes, long, spiky ridges running from snout to tail tip, and shorter but extremely graceful limbs ending with four toed feet adorned with exceptionally long black claws.

She had no wings that John could see, but he knew that it took some dragons years for their wings to fully form.

She shook like a dog, flinging slime through the air.

"You're bigger than I thought you would be," he informed her, cringing back slightly from the projectile slime. "Much bigger. Jesus, you're the size of a Great Dane! How did you fit in that egg?"

She didn't respond. Instead, she started coughing violently, hacking goop out of her lungs until a small tongue of flame flicked out of her mouth. She froze, as though shocked with what she just did.

"Oh, you're a _Breather_," John gasped. "Oh, I am going to be in so much trouble for taking you."

… …

Cracks started appearing all over the surface of the egg, and Sherlock watched impatiently. It would have to hatch quickly, before they were caught. If Mycroft found them...there was no telling what would happen.

"I've got you," Sherlock assured the egg awkwardly, not quite sure how to go about this. Should he be giving comfort? Should he have set aside some food for the no-doubt-hungry hatchling?

His worries soon became irrelevant. A small horn broke through the surface of the egg. The impact caused a chain reaction, causing the shell to completely shatter like glass.

A very dazed silver dragon blinked up at him.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted him. "You're rather gorgeous. It's nice to meet you. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

The hatchling blinked his luminous blue eyes again before abruptly hacking up an astonishing amount of fluid from his lungs.

"A bit early for you to hatch," Sherlock muttered. "But I appreciate the haste. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

The dragons was long and snake-like, a graceful, coiling body interrupted by absurdly gangly limbs and tiny, useless wings. His head was more narrowed, triangular, less squared off and brutish like many dragons. He had neither spiky crests nor an arrow head tail. The small horn he had used to break through his shell had already fallen off, its task completed. He was smooth from snout to tail tip. Sherlock examined his three toed claws for a moment, noting their short, translucent nails and the size of his feet relative to his body.

"You're going to get rather large, aren't you?" Sherlock commented more to himself than the dragon. He was already the size of a golden retriever, although considerably longer. "Too dainty for war, but the Aerial Corp would love you for breeding. Horribly dull existence, that. When you learn to speak, you'll thank me for it."

The silver dragon blinked again and let out a small snort of icy air. Sherlock jumped back slightly in surprise as the air caught his sleeve and froze the fabric solid.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped in wonder. "Oh, you take after Neige. Shit, I'd get arrested for stealing a Breather. We're going to have to leave right now, or they'll take you away. We can't have that, you've already proven to be so very interesting."

… …

The Aerial Corp wasn't happy. Colonel Lestrade had to physically restrain First Lieutenant Anderson shortly after they arrived on the scene. Apparently, he was the one who was going to receive the egg and be promoted to Captain.

"This is ridiculous!" Anderson spit. "We're not going to let some brat get away with hatching a dragon, are we? That has to be a punishable offense!"

John held the hatchling close but didn't say anything in his defense. He knew he was ill equipped to deal with a dragon on his own. London was no place for raising one.

Colonel Lestrade sighed and turned to John. "Sorry, lad. We're going to have to take the dragon. You aren't qualified to take care of her."

"You will not," a voice as hard and cold as steel hissed.

Lestrade jumped in surprise and turned to face his dragon, a brawny black Enforcer with venomous fangs and a restless need to keep moving.

"Sid," Lestrade sighed. "It's protocol, or at least precedent. There is no way we're letting a civilian keep a Scottish Fire Breather. If we knew who left the egg here, we'd pursue them and get justice for this mess, but the best we can do now is find a capable captain for the hatchling."

The dragon (Sid?) abruptly moved between John and the members of the Aerial Corp. John flinched but remained crouched next to his hatchling, warily keeping an eye on Sid's lashing tail.

"If you want a capable captain, you shouldn't have considered Anderson," Sid commented drily, ignoring the subsequent protests. "I will not allow you to separate the infant from her Chosen. It is unthinkable and unholy. No dragon would do it."

"That dragon belongs in the Corp!" Anderson finally exploded. There was an unspoken _She belongs to me! _that everyone was happy to ignore.

John finally spoke up. "I'm eighteen," he pointed out to the rather annoyed group of officers. "And I was going to enlist in the army. Why don't I just join the Aerial Corp?"

There was a beat of silence.

"It's irregular," Lestrade sighed. "But it might work. Let's get you home for the evening while I speak to my superiors. If you're really willing to make this choice, it would make everything much easier."

"I want to," John declared with more confidence than he really felt. "It would be an honor to join the Corp, sir."

… …

"Keep still, friend," Sherlock urged the hatchling, zipping him up in the ratty old duffel bag as the bus came into view. "If they suspect something is off, all of this has been for nothing."

The hatchling was perfectly still. Sherlock hoisted him over his shoulder, using all of his strength, and tried to conceal the effort it took to carry the bag as the bus stopped and its doors opened. Sherlock paid for the ride and took a seat near the back. He set the duffel in the seat next to him and pretended to go to sleep.

Before too long, they would be in London. And from there, they could fade into obscurity. Sherlock was tall for his age and, hopefully, no one would question why he was alone in the city. From London he could keep moving if need be, or settle for as long as he could.

But he had done it. The bus moved through the night and Sherlock was free. He would never be forgiven for what he had done, but it was necessary.

He finally had his own dragon.

"Dearest," Sherlock sighed, setting a hand on the bag. "This is going to be a most fantastic adventure."

… …

That night, John curled up in bed, his hatchling lying next to him. His parents hadn't taken the news of his immediate enlistment well, although they had been a bit stuck on the fact that there was now a baby dragon in their flat. Harry took it personally, having watched John choose the egg over some semblance of a normal life.

"I was _right there_, Johnny," she had cried. "I was right there and you just walked away. You didn't say a _word _about what you were going to do. You didn't think about me or this family for an instant!"

Well, that was true. But John hadn't really thought about anything, just about helping an egg that shouldn't have been left alone.

"And how did you get there?" John asked the hatchling. She cracked open a sleepy gold eye but didn't say anything. Lestrade said it would be a few days yet before her speech came in.

"Are you alright with this?" he asked her. "Are you alright with joining the Corp?"

She seemed to shrug. John wriggled closer to her.

"You need a name," John sighed.

She looked at him as though that was an obvious conclusion that she had made a good long time ago and that John was being an idiot.

"Right fine. Well, you're a Scottish Fire Breather. My grandfather was Scottish. He used to grumble at me in Gaelic. I had to pick up a few things to understand what he was ordering me to do, so maybe I could give you a Gaelic name." John paused. "Teine. Your name is Teine."

Teine looked pleased with this and closed her eyes to sleep.

"Teine," John sighed thoughtfully. "Teine. Fire. Not the most original but it does suit you."

John closed his eyes and slipped into a deep sleep, warmed by the living furnace curled around him.

… …

"We've done it, darling," Sherlock sighed, laying a hand on the hatchling's back. They were lying on the roof of an abandoned building in the heart of London, looking up at the stars. It was a frigid autumn night, but the hatchling was more comfortable in the cold, and Sherlock was bundled up enough to be safe. "We've escaped. We will live a good life together, I know it."

The hatchling looked over at Sherlock with admiration and loyalty. _Brilliant_, his gaze seemed to say. Sherlock flushed with pleasure at the thought.

"Vivaldi," Sherlock said suddenly. The hatchling blinked and Sherlock explained. "Vivaldi is a composer. His famous piece _the Four Seasons _had multiple movements, one of which was titled _Winter._ You remind me of that movement, of Vivaldi's winter."

The hatchling cocked his head to the side.

"So that's what I'm going to name you," Sherlock decided. "Not Winter. No, I'm not nearly that dull. I'm going to name you Vivaldi. We can call you Viv if you're a nickname sort of dragon, but personally I prefer the full thing." Sherlock thought to ask the dragon's permission. He rolled over on his side to face the creature. "Sound good?"

Vivaldi nodded, and that was that.

"Good," Sherlock sighed, lying on his back again. "Sherlock and Vivaldi," he said with a sleepy smile on his face. "Bit of a mouthful, but it works. Goodnight, Vivaldi. We begin in the morning."

(A/N: Teine is pronounced Chen-nuh and is Scottish Gaelic for Fire. Or, at least, that's what Google told me. I don't know any Gaelic speakers, but I'm doing my best here. You can follow me at .com for updates, excerpts, the rare ficlet, and just to know what other things I'm working on, if you're interested. Please review honestly, and feel free to drop me a PM if you have any questions or concerns. Thank you.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Eighteen years later..._

John opened his eyes, squinting against the bright morning sun. He couldn't bring himself to get out of bed right away. Instead, he just rested under covers for a moment, ignoring the ever present ache in his shoulder and the sound of Teine snoring in the next room.

He cringed, picturing how cramped Teine was. He needed to find a new flat desperately. Unfortunately, there were very few places in London within John's price range that could accommodate a ten foot tall, fire breathing dragoness.

So before that he needed to find a job. And before that he needed to find a way to let Teine in and out of the flat without much hassle, so she could spread her wings in his absence.

Oh, and he needed to get a bigger fridge. It was difficult to feed a dragon on a Corp pension, especially considering he couldn't just take home an entire cow.

John thought, not for the first time, that it would have been better in Teine had just agreed to find a new Captain. But after eighteen years together, she outright refused to fight with anyone other than John. The Corp, with an enormous amount of protest only silenced by the fact that the beast they were arguing with was capable of roasting them alive, finally released Teine into John's care, although she hadn't technically been discharged.

But things had happened the way they had happened. Teine was still thickheaded and stubborn, she chose John years ago and refused to see reason.

So now John had a dragon that wasn't actually legal and no place to keep her.

_Find a job first,_ John reminded himself. He rolled out of bed and got dressed. When he entered the sitting room, he crawled over Teine's coiled body, horribly cramped in this depressingly small flat, and navigated his way to the tiny kitchen to make breakfast.

He was halfway through eating his toast when Teine cracked open an amber eye.

"Where are you going?" she asked, shifting as much as she was able to. God, John wondered how the hell they managed to get her into the flat in the first place.

"Need to find a job," John said, brushing the crumbs off his fingers. "Do you remember Mike? He's working at the Rookery. I'm getting coffee with him today. I'll see if they have any openings."

Teine snorted unhappily, releasing a small cloud of sulfurous smoke. "I don't like the thought of you working with other dragons."

John rolled his eyes, because really. He had been nothing but working with other dragons since he was discharged.

"Jealous?"

"No," Teine insisted petulantly. "Most dragons are idiots and you shouldn't be subjected to them. Besides, what if I get bored when you're gone? It will be _horrible_, John. Absolutely horrible. The whole world is so very boring and I don't know what to do when I'm trapped in this stupid flat."

John reached out to stoke her nearest coil of body. "I know, love. Don't worry. I'm getting the job so I can afford somewhere better for us. And hopefully the Woman will have something interesting for us to do again. Maybe we can do some reconnaissance flying. That's something to do, right?"

Teine snorted disdainfully and shut her eyes again. "I refuse to wake up until there is something worthwhile for me to do."

"Please eat something while I'm gone," John begged.

"Eating is boring."

"I'm leaving some food out, and if it has gone bad by the time I get home, we are going to have serious words, Missy."

"Go away," Teine snapped, pretending to try to sleep.

"I'll be back soon," John promised, climbing over her to get his coat. He worked the door open, trying not to disturb the 'sleeping' dragon too much, and headed to the Rookery, hoping that he looked like a presentable candidate for a job and praying that he didn't smell too much like a dragon.

… …

Sherlock and Vivaldi loved the Rookery. Loved it with a passion that rivaled their love of solving puzzles. Well, Sherlock's love of solving puzzles. Vivaldi preferred to praise Sherlock's puzzle solving ability and watch with rapt attention.

As the center of dragon research and medical treatment, the Rookery was the best equipped place of Sherlock to conduct his experiments and increase contacts for his work. He could have spent his whole life in their laboratories (specially modified to accommodate dragons, so Vivaldi was also able to spend this time with him).

Although, it would have been better if he had explicit permission to use the labs, and wasn't constantly relying on the excuses made by other sympathizers to keep him there.

"Are you nearly finished, Sherlock?" Mike asked, glancing nervously at his watch.

"Somewhere you have to be, Michael?" Sherlock drawled out, amused by the man's discomfort.

"Meeting an old friend for coffee," Mike responded. "So what are you working on anyway?"

"Various things," Sherlock responded, bored. "Something to neutralize dragon scent, for one." Vivaldi gave an offended sniff at this, which Sherlock ignored.

"Can I ask why?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dragons have a strong smell. Sulfur, fire, manure, rotting meat. We've gotten used to it, but surely you remember that the first time you got a whiff of adult dragon was an unpleasant experience."

Mike shook himself and nodded.

"Exactly. I'm trying to find a flatmate. Can't even begin that search unless I can do something to get rid of the dragon smell in the flat."

"You're looking for a flatmate?" Mike asked incredulously.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. "That's what I just said. It's an annoying endeavor. Even after getting rid of the dragon smell, who would want me for a flatmate?"

Mike didn't say anything, although he obviously agreed.

"You are a bit of a pain in the arse," Vivaldi added affectionately. "Although if I haven't tried to kill you yet, you can't be too bad. Maybe."

"Thank you for the input," Sherlock sighed. "Now smell this. What does it smell like to you?"

Vivaldi gave a sniff and made a face. "It smells like fish. And also somehow like snow and petrol."

"Getting close then," Sherlock declared.

"So if I leave for a bit," Mike interrupted. "Do you think you could keep from setting the lab on fire?"

"Vivaldi is an ice breather," Sherlock reminded him. "We're more likely to render it to subzero temperatures."

"Right," Mike said, looking uncomfortable. "I really do have to leave, though. So...good luck with all that, I guess."

Mike booked a hasty retreat. As soon as he was gone, Vivaldi fixed Sherlock was an expectant look.

"What?" Sherlock asked, playing dumb.

Vivaldi did the dragon approximation of rolling his eyes. "Go on. I know you're dying to show off."

Sherlock leaned away from the microscope and allowed himself a small grin.

"Mike's wife is expecting their third child, although she hasn't told Mike yet. She's waiting until the stress of his upcoming board meeting has passed. He's meeting someone he knew back from when he worked as a dragon surgeon in the Corp. Most likely a fellow surgeon or a captain whose dragon had been injured at some point. The 'old friend' is just using coffee as an excuse. He's trying to find a new job and is hoping that Mike will put a good word for him in at the Rookery."

"Brilliant," Vivaldi said, sounding content. "I still have no idea how you do that, but good on you."

Sherlock smiled at his friend. "It was a bit more difficult to figure things out about the friend, but Mike's posture said a lot. Also, he pulled out his phone twenty minutes ago to text the man, named John Watson according to the contact information. I caught a glance at the content of some of the messages. This John fellow is definitely looking for a job and attempting to be subtle about it. He's not doing a very good job though, and will probably make a blunder before they even get their drinks."

"Do you think he could be one of ours?" Vivaldi asked.

Sherlock shook his head, but shrugged after another moment's hesitation. "Maybe. Not likely. Not if he worked with the Corp as a soldier. The higher ups are far too good about keeping their secrets. As medical personnel, it's possible."

"Well, Mike will send him our way if he's a rebel," Vivaldi said with a yawn. "Are you going to be testing much longer? I could use a nap."

"Sleep away, darling," Sherlock said absentmindedly. "I'll be here for a while yet."

… …

"Sorry John," Mike Stamford said, looking a bit uncomfortable. "We just don't have any openings right now."

John sighed and nodded, knowing that it wasn't the best of chances anyway. "It's fine, mate. I'm not the best candidate for a job anyway, what with the leg and the tremors."

"Still bugging you?" Mike asked, nodding to John's leg.

The ex-aviator shrugged. "Don't need a cane anymore, but it will seize up now and then. Listen, do you know of anything, any work near here that I might be able to get?"

"I'm not sure," Mike said, staring at his coffee. "Do you mind me asking why you're so desperate anyway? Aviators have got a good pension, I've heard. Most captains are set for life."

"If their dragon dies," John added. "Teine is fine. They're giving me my pension for being invalid, but I can't manage more than this shitty little flat that she can't even really fit in. I need a job to find somewhere better."

"Have you thought about getting a flat share?"

John laughed at that. "Really? Me? I've got a fully grown fire breathing dragoness with the temperament of a stubborn, cranky toddler. Who would want me for a flatmate?"

Mike looked a little surprised before laughing.

"What?" John asked, a little caught off guard.

"You know, you're the second person to ask me that today."

"Am I?"

"Yep. And he had a dragon too."

… …

Sherlock looked up as Mike reentered the lab, his 'old friend' in tow.

Interesting.

A sympathizer? No…? Maybe? Data Inconclusive. Standard aviator haircut, posture of someone long accustomed to military service. Distinct smell of...

Of dragon.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. That was...odd. And unexpected. Who was this?

"Old mate from the Corp," Mike said, introducing John to Sherlock. "John Watson."

"Hello," John said, giving Sherlock only a cursory glance before focusing his gaze on Vivaldi with open admiration. "And hello to you, too. God, you are a gorgeous thing." John turned to Mike. "Don't tell Teine I said that."

_Scottish Gaelic. Teine=Fire. _

_Possibilities for name: red coloring, high core temperature, fire breathing ability, fire immunity, combination of the above. _

_Observation: No sign of ash on person. No sign of fire damage on clothes. Significant burn scar on right hand, over a decade (possibly two?) old. _

_Conclusion: John Watson, while invalid (obvious shoulder injury and psychosomatic limp), is still in possession of his fully grown fire breathing dragon. _

John Watson just became very interesting.

And he didn't have the air of a sympathizer, of constantly sizing strangers up, trying to decide if they're on the same side. There was something much stronger to him, more confident. Like there was a core of steel holding him upright.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked after half a second's silence.

"What?" John looked slightly startled.

"The violin," Sherlock repeated. "I tend to play it when I'm thinking. I also own a rather large dragon, but I'm sure you've noticed that already."

"I'm sorry, what?" John looked confused.

Sherlock sighed internally. He obviously wasn't the brightest of the bunch.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock continued. "I tend to experiment as well, and I don't talk for days on end."

"Who said anything about flatmates?" John interrupted.

"I did, about an hour ago. I told Mike that it would be difficult for me to find a flatmate, what with the fact that I live with a dragon the size of a sports utility vehicle with a tail. Then he shows up with an old friend, in need of a job and place to live that will be able to accommodate his fully grown fire breathing dragon named Teine. Personally, I don't think that there is anyone else in the London area more suited to my flat space than you, provided your dragon is under forty feet in height, though that won't be a problem since there are no known fire breathing breeds that large."

Sherlock abandoned the now-unnecessary experiment and started gathering his things. Vivaldi moved to his feet, stiff from his brief nap, and prepared to follow him out of the lab.

"I've got a great place on the edge of the city, plenty of room but it costs a pretty penny. I think together we should just be able to afford it. Let's meet there at six tomorrow and make the negotiations with the landlady."

"Wait a minute!" John interrupted, apparently finding his voice for the first time. "We barely know each other and we're going to look at a flat together? I don't even know your name."

Sherlock sighed as he tied on his scarf. He exchanged a quick look with Vivaldi, who rolled his eyes again. Showtime.

"I know that you're a Captain in the Aerial Corp who has been invalid out of service. I know that you are in possession of a fully grown Scottish Fire Breather named Teine that you have had since you were a teenager. I know that you were honorably discharged, but you let the Corp on poor terms, possibly because of the circumstances surrounding your injury, more likely because your dragon decided to join you in civilian life and refused both another captain and the breeding pens. I know that you're desperate for work, but only because you need to afford housing for your dragon. I know that the offer I am giving you is the best one you will receive."

Sherlock took a moment to get his breath back and enjoy the dumbstruck look on John's face.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

With a wink that was probably unnecessary and a twirl of his coat that most definitely was necessary, Sherlock left the room, with Vivaldi trailing behind.

"Looking for a new toy, Sherlock?" Vivaldi asked dryly as they left the building.

"I'm looking for a flatmate," Sherlock corrected. "Don't be jealous. Besides, he comes with a fire breathing dragon. Don't pretend that it isn't fascinating, you know it is."

… …

"I think I like him," Teine decided, once John finished telling her the story.

"Well, of course you would like him," John grumbled. "You two were kindred spirits. I swear to God, I don't know if I could manage to deal with two egotistical geniuses telling me everything about myself."

Teine snorted. "He can't be that observant. He's not even a dragon."

"Humans can be hyperobservational as well, dearest. Although it isn't as common. The difference was that this guy was smart enough to know what to do with all the details. It would...be weird. We don't need him in our lives. He would figure out too much."

Teine shifted slightly, rearranging the coils of her body the best she could, her wings thunking painfully against the walls as she did so.

"You said he was friends with Mike. He might be like us, John. Mike is careful about who he introduces, you know that as well as I do. I say we give him a shot. Let's go check out the flat tomorrow, let me get a sense of him, and we can make our decision later. It's not like we're signing our souls away just by _looking_."

"Fine, you're right," John sighed, perching on her forearm. "You're always right. We'll just go see what he's all about. And if he's at least a sympathizer to the Resistance, I don't think we should have any problem staying with him."

"Was he a member of the Aerial Corp?"

"He didn't say, but Vivaldi sure as hell hasn't seen battle or the breeding pens."

"Then it's possible he's rogue. Although what a rogue civilian is doing in the labs of the Rookery is beyond me. If anything, I'm curious about this Sherlock Holmes. He sounds anything but boring, and that is exactly what I need."

John ran a hand over her warm red scales. "There's just one problem."

"What is it, Captain?"

"I don't know how we're going to get you back out of here. I'm still not sure how we got you in."

"We'll make do. And if something get's broken, they can take it up with the two ton Breather with, as you have so eloquently put it, a fucking nasty temper. I'm not in the mood for pleasing idiots. Now, will you put on some of that violin music for me? I'd like to get some rest."

… …

"I don't want to sound rude," Vivaldi started after dinner that evening. "But isn't letting an aviator live with us a stupid idea? I've given it some thought, and it seems like one to me."

"We're good at keeping secrets, love," Sherlock reminded him. "It's how we've managed eighteen years this way. If John Watson is exactly what he appears to be, we will take the appropriate steps."

"I can hear the 'but' waiting unspoken."

"But I don't think that will be the case," Sherlock said, his eyes bright, delighted. "John Watson is an enigma, wrapped in a puzzle, and shrouded in a facade. I'd give anything to peel those layers away. If he's more than what meets the eye, then he could be an extremely valuable asset."

Vivaldi yawned, looking unimpressed. "You should call Lestrade or find some way to speak to Obsidian," he suggested. "See what he knows about this Watson fellow. If he's been in the Corp since he's been with...Teine, you said? If he's been in the Corp since he's had Teine, then Lestrade is bound to have crossed his path. It might be a good idea to look into him before you invite him into our home."

Sherlock waved him off. "You sound like your brood mare."

"My brood mare is an appropriately cautious dragoness. She's managed to survive while serving your psychotic brother, she's learned a few things."

"I've never liked Neige, she's a viper."

Vivaldi let out a huff of icy air. "But she's not stupid. Look into this Watson fellow. Don't jump in blindly for the fun of finding your way out."

"Eh."

"I'd rather not get killed, Sherlock."

'You wouldn't be killed," Sherlock said dismissively. "You would get captured and forced into the breeding pens like your sisters."

"My sisters are dead," Vivaldi reminded him with a voice as icy as his breath. "They died in those pens, forced to produce egg after egg until their bodies gave out on them. They are why we are heading down this ridiculous path, as you have reminded me on various occasions. I don't want their deaths to have been in vain."

Sherlock took a deep breath, recognizing that he was about to edge too far into sensitive territory and needing to pull back quickly.

"Ophelia and Juliet were tragic losses," Sherlock conceded. "The irony of their names was not lost on me, nor was it lost on Mycroft. He regrets his actions, we all regret our actions. I promise you, I may not be capable of much on my own, but I will not allow anything to happen to you, darling. Certainly not for the sake a sad little soldier with a curious companion. It is still you and I against the rest of the world. That will not change."

"It better not," Vivaldi mumbled before getting up to search for food. "Remember to eat some dinner," he called out as he left. "I can't do much with you if you start to die of starvation than put you out of your misery. And I'd rather not."

"I'll be fine."

"Sure, sure. That's what you always say."

(A/N: You can follow me for updates, excerpts, and ficlets at .com)


	3. Chapter 3

"This...well, this is perfect," John said with awe, looking up at the high ceilings and basking in the light emitted by the enormous windows. The sitting room was huge, plenty of space for both men and both dragons to spend time without bumping into each other.

"Isn't it?" Sherlock agreed proudly.

"I've been trying to rent this out for months!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, fearlessly pushing past the two dragons in order to get to their masters. "Too expensive, they kept saying. No reason to pay for a place this big. I was thinking about dumping a fortune into it and convert it into multiple stories and a dozen more rooms! Much better just to rent it this way. Now, there's an extra room where the dragons can stay, and two human sized bedrooms, if you'll be needing two."

"We'd definitely be needing two," John said quickly, wondering where the hell Mrs. Hudson got that assumption from. "If I take it."

"Of course you'll take it," Sherlock said dismissively. "There's nowhere else in the city this big that's even close to your price range."

"Oy!"

"He's right," Teine interrupted, pulling away from her quiet conversation with Vivaldi. "If nothing else, I refuse to go back to that shitty flat. It took us a half an hour to get me out of there, and today was the first time I'd been flying in a month."

"Teine..."

"You know I'm not enthusiastic about shacking up with strangers," Teine continued, making it Sherlock's turn to protest and sputter. "But I don't think that there will be anywhere more perfect. The doors and hallways are big enough for me. There's a yard in the back. And it's only two blocks away from a Tube stop. And if it turns out trusting the strangers was a bad idea, I can set it all on fire."

"Hey!" Now Mrs. Hudson was protesting.

"Further flat hunting will be tedious and dull," Teine concluded. "We should stay here."

"Weren't you the one who said we'd just be looking?" John threw up his hands.

Teine rolled her eyes. "I was lying."

Sherlock regarded Teine for a moment. "I like her," he said decisively.

"She's just like you," Vivaldi complained from the other side of the main room. "God forbid you're both bored at the same time."

"How can I be bored when I finally have space to fly?" Teine asked no one in particular, stretching her enormous wings to prove her point. John smiled, remembering the wingless little thing that had hatched so many years ago and wondering when she had turned into a jagged, spiky behemoth with a wingspan that rivaled record holders.

Sherlock admired her as well. "The Corps must have thrown a fit when they lost you."

"They did," Teine agreed. "But I wasn't sad to lose the Corps. I'm not a soldier by nature, although I'm built for it."

"Joining was the only way they'd let me keep her," John explained, patting her neck affectionately. "Her egg somehow ended up on the grounds of my college. I hatched her and they nearly separated us. Took promising to join the Corps to keep her."

"I suppose I understand," Sherlock said, grinning. "I planned on joining to Corps myself, in the hopes I'd get a dragon."

Vivaldi choked on the barking cough that was a dragon's approximation of a laugh and the silver dragon finally joined the group. "Thank God that wasn't necessary," he said. "You would have been kicked out for insubordination your first week in."

"I might have lasted a bit longer."

"You really wouldn't have."

"How did you end up with Sherlock, then?" Teine asked Vivaldi.

"Less than legally," Vivaldi said vaguely.

"As a retired Captain of the Aerial Corps, should I be concerned about that?" John asked, although his lips were quirking up in amusement.

"It will be for the best if you don't know," Sherlock said, smiling. He looked around the enormous main room for a moment before turning to John again. "So you'll take it?"

"I believe so," John agreed, wondering how he possibly could have lucked out so much.

"I'll leave you to look around then," Mrs. Hudson said happily, heading back to her part flat, which was attached to the side of the building.

The flat/warehouse was perfect, Teine and Vivaldi genuinely seemed to like each other. Sherlock was...an odd bloke, but he didn't seem unstable, and he would certainly be interesting. Really, for the first time in a long time, John was beginning to feel as though everything was starting to come together.

Then Colonel Gregory Lestrade rushed in and shattered the illusion.

… …

Sherlock could have thrown Lestrade out the moment he saw him. It was just his bloody luck that the man chose _now _to show up out of nowhere.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, sounding out of breath. "Sherlock, there's been an incident, I need you to-"

and then Lestrade saw the enormous fire breathing dragoness staring at him in shock. "Teine? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I could say the same, Colonel," John said from just outside Lestrade's line of sight.

Lestrade turned to John and blinked several times. "John Watson? What are you...?"

"Oh good," Sherlock said with false cheer, frantically trying to predict how this was going to pan out. "You already know each other. Lestrade, John is going to be my new flatmate. John, I frequently work with Lestrade. There, all settled. Lestrade, what were you talking about?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable, he kept glancing at John and Teine like he was afraid to speak in front of them. Sherlock instinctively straightened. This must have something to do with the Riders.

"Oh, come off it, Greg," Teine finally interrupted. "We're all sympathizers here, you don't need to worry about handshakes and code words."

John twitched violently when Teine spoke. "Teine!"

Teine rolled her eyes. "Are you really that oblivious, John? Sherlock's never been in the Corps, he's illegally obtained Vivaldi, and despite that, he's looking for a place of residence big enough to house several dragons. In London, of all places."

Sherlock smirked, rather liking the way events were unraveling after all. "Really, John? I wasn't sure about you, although I can't say that I'm too surprised. How long have you sympathized with the cause? Did Lestrade pull you in?"

"No," Lestrade said. "I had no clue about you, Watson. Are you really?"

"Not exactly," John sighed, looking weary. "I'm not a sympathizer. I'm a Rider."

There was a beat of silence as that sunk in. Sherlock had to admit he hadn't been expecting that, in fact he was close to having a crisis over his glaring mistake. That was something he should have _noticed!_

"There's always something," he muttered aloud, shaking his head. "I always miss something. Doc, I presume?"

John jumped. "How did you-?"

"There is exactly one Rider with a Breather," Sherlock reminded him. "It's hardly a deduction."

John shifted. "Still. That's supposed to be a secret."

"So, you're here on Resistance business then?" Teine interrupted, beginning to look bored.

"Yes," Lestrade said after a moment. "There's been a murder."

"A murder?" Sherlock felt a spark of interest before he could help himself. "What sort of murder?"

"The kind where someone died," Lestrade said bluntly. "A Captain in the Corps was shot execution style while he was on leave. We think that our least favorite faction is behind it."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned. "And you want me to prove it?"

"The Woman said that you're to figure out exactly who did it. Faction or not."

"I'll be along shortly," Sherlock promised, giving John a significant glance. Lestrade followed the look and nodded.

"I'll text you the address," he said, leaving as quickly as he arrived.

"So you're a sympathizer," John started once they were alone.

"So you're a Rider."

There was a moment of silence before they both shared a smile.

"This might work out better than I thought," John said after a moment.

… …

John hadn't intended to go rogue.

He joined the Corps under slight duress, true. He had been too terrified to losing Teine to think of any alternative. But he had always figured he would end up being a military man, so it wasn't as though all his plans for the future had been rewritten.

There had been just a few too many incidents of cruelty for him to continue to ignore it. It didn't help that Teine could see through everyone's deceptions and she had no hesitations in telling John about everything that was going on behind the scenes. The secrets Teine had made John privy to would have sent most of the soldiers into shock.

Breeding dragonesses until they died from neglect and exhaustion. Stealing their eggs as soon as they were born and training the hatchlings to fight and kill, or else send them to the same pens their brood mares died in.

Separating hatchlings and their chosen Captains, instead using a spoils system to reward wealthy soldiers with dragons of their own, oftentimes against the hatchling's will.

Separating mated pairs and forcing studs to fight (often to the death) for the privilege of mating and breeding.

'Removing' dragons that would not do as they were told.

Teine saw it all and was rightly furious for it.

It wasn't until Colonel Lestrade was 'honorably' discharged and his dragon Obsidian was given to a superior officer who took a shine to him that John knew something had to be done.

Obsidian told John about a movement he had heard of. The Resistance was fighting to secure better rights for dragons in war. Their ultimate goal was to dismantle the Corp altogether, but they recognized the need for smaller steps to get to that point.

Headed by The Woman, someone John has never met face to face, though he had spoken to her on the phone several times, the Resistance soon became common knowledge, its group of ambassadors/spokespeople/demonstrators were called Riders, and known only by their code names.

In John's case, he and Teine had burned down an illegal breeding farm, freeing all the dragons within. The other Riders had found safe havens for the dragons to recover, but most never got over the psychological scars.

John had never felt surer of their mission than went he released a dragoness that had never before been permitted to fly. The manacles holding her down had been on her for so long her scales had grown over them. It filled him with a cold, icy rage and had only melted when the dragoness cried out in joy as she took to the air for the first time.

The Resistance only broke the law in the face of other laws broken. They were only violent in the face of other violence. They never instigated. They never targeted the innocent. For these reasons, many of the civilians saw them as heroes. The Corps saw them as enemies.

Once John was invalided out, The Woman sent him precisely one line of contact, telling him to lay low until he had healed and the Corps wasn't keeping such a close eye on Teine.

So John had patiently been waiting for his new orders. He spent his free time trying to find a job and a flat.

He should have guessed that he wouldn't be able to keep his head down for long. Bloody Sherlock Holmes and his sodding investigation.

… …

Sherlock had never really planned to take an active part in the Resistance.

It was just one of those things that happened.

Mycroft had found him just after his sixteenth birthday. He attempted to capture both Sherlock and Vivaldi, but the two managed to get away. Eventually, he offered his little brother a deal. He would overlook their continued existence if they occasionally did him favors.

Mycroft wanted the Resistance infiltrated.

It was barely beginning, and could have been taken down completely with only a few pieces of inside information. However, Sherlock discovered soon after joining just what secrets the government—his brother—and the military were hiding.

He saw the cruelty and the abuse. He spoke to dragons that had escaped and spoke to dragons that had no idea that something was wrong. He was able to put a lot of pieces together. He went to The Woman and came clean, telling her who he was and what he had been sent there to do. Instead of being angry, instead of killing him on the spot, Irene decided to use Sherlock to her advantage. Together they were able to outsmart Mycroft Holmes, and the Resistance grew.

He went deep undercover for years, until Mycroft stopped looking for him.

He reemerged a few years later, shortly after the Riders made their first appearance, and cut Mycroft a deal. (Well, he blackmailed his brother, but Sherlock prefers not to think of it that way.) He was able to continue living in London undisturbed, watching a rebellion unfold around him, consulting whenever he was asked, but refusing to join the chain of command. He observed, instead, from a distance.

Sherlock was slightly embarrassed to admit that he had admired Doc more than any other Rider in the Resistance. Most of the Riders only spoke, calling out for supporters for their cause or denouncing the military for its cruelty and injustice towards nature's most beautiful creatures. Most of them were like Sherlock, who had obtained a dragon through less than legal means and were terrified of having their companion taken away from them.

Sherlock sympathized with the cause, helped where he could, but had no desire to go through the process of becoming a Rider and being obligated to take orders from faceless Generals with hidden motivations. He had never come closer to going all in than when he heard what Doc had done.

That had been true resistance, true rebellion. That had been taking an action that everyone else had been too terrified to take.

Sherlock had helped with the safe havens, working with the surviving dragons, hearing any stories they had to tell and trying to piece together more facts about the illegal breeding operation. Each one had a story for how the masked man on the Breather freed them from their chains and helped them launch into the sky.

Sherlock tried to connect the jumper clad, kind, smiling man with the vigilante raining fire down upon those who deserved it most.

It was easier than he thought it would be.

There was a core of steel to John Watson, one that would never break or weather. He was not afraid to take justice in his own hands. He was not afraid to do the dirty work or take whatever steps he felt were necessary.

The fact that they never found any trace of the people who ran the illegal breeding farm speaks volumes to that point. Sherlock couldn't even find a clue, and he had walked the entire scene of destruction.

It takes a very special person to fool Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock loathed to admit it, but he was relieved beyond measure that Doc was not his enemy.

… …

"Where are we going?" John asked, trying to determine it based on the sights they were passing as the cab took them through London.

"Not far," Sherlock said vaguely. "To Captain William Brent's flat. He was found this morning, shot execution style."

John hissed air through his teeth. "Not fun, that."

"You sound like you speak from personal experience. Forgive me, but I wasn't aware it was common to survive being shot execution style."

John rolled his eyes. "Teine and I went to Afghanistan. It's not an uncommon sight in a warzone, especially for the Corps. Front lines and all that."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. John took pity on him and changed the subject. "So this bloke was a Captain? I've never heard of him."

"He was recently promoted," Sherlock explained, scrolling through some of the details on his phone. "He was a private, just joined the Corp, when an egg he was tending decided to hatch for him. They didn't promote him immediately, but he moved quickly through the ranks so he could captain the hatchling."

"They didn't separate them?" John asked.

"You have our dear friend 'Sid' to thank for that," Sherlock said, smiling. "Obsidian gathered the support of several high ranking dragons, the ones that the Corp can't quite get away with ignoring, and refused to allow them to separate."

"Sounds familiar," John said, thinking fondly back to when Sid stood between John and the aviators, refusing to let Anderson take Teine away. "He did the same for me when Teine hatched."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction, surprised. "Lestrade was the one who responded at the scene?"

John nodded. "Lestrade and a few others. He was a colonel then, and I'm a bit stuck on referring to him as such. They were going to pry us apart so some first lieutenant could get his promotion. Sid jumped in between us. I rarely saw Lestrade after that, but Sid and I stayed on good terms. Teine adores him. Don't tell her I told you that. She'll deny it to her last breath."

"I like her," Sherlock said, looking out the window. "She's observant, very intelligent."

"Obnoxious, egotistical, stubborn, ridiculous, and slightly evil at times," John continued. "But yeah, for all that she's been a fantastic friend."

"I hope she and Vivaldi are getting along," Sherlock said absently, not turning his attention away from the window. "This will be a bloody nightmare if they don't."

… …

"You're kind of a bitch," Vivaldi said decisively.

Teine rolled her eyes. "Well, you're an idiot. No one is perfect."

They were facing off in the middle of the main room of their new flat. Miffed at being left behind, Teine had let of a few bursts of flame, to Mrs. Hudson's endless panic. Their new landlady kept poking her head in now, checking to make sure that nothing was burning to the ground.

"I'm bigger than you," Vivaldi pointed out, smugly.

"You're longer," Teine corrected. "And you're taller. I've probably got twenty stone on you."

"Your scale is thicker, it weighs you down. Besides, my wings are bigger."

"I'm solid muscle. I'm a soldier. I've been trained to battle. You wouldn't have what it takes."

"Brute strength is inferior to intelligence."

"Just as well," Teine said, proudly. "I'm smarter than you."

"At least I'm not a bitch."

They glowered.

"I like you," Teine said after another moment. "You don't back down."

"I'm not overly fond of you," Vivaldi said, sniffing. "You're a bit rude."

"You started it," Teine insisted.

"You continued it," Vivaldi countered.

More glowering.

"Do you think they'll be angry if we go flying?" Teine asked, breaking the silence.

"Probably," Vivaldi said reasonably.

"You probably get to fly a lot," Teine said jealously. "I've barely been able to fly in weeks."

"Yes, I've flown loads of times," Vivaldi sighed. "So much. Sherlock makes me run all sorts of errands for him. It's tiring really, and boring."

A moment of quiet.

"Want to fly some more?" Teine asked.

"Oh, God yes."


	4. Chapter 4

John knew that he didn't belong at the crime scene the second he stepped through the doors. He knew that no one was supposed to be there, considering that he didn't see a single police officer, and everyone was being very wary of the amount of noise they made. And by everyone, John meant him, Sherlock, Lestrade, and one other sympathizer who was milling around, dusting for fingerprints.

"I knew we had sympathizers in the Yard," John muttered, sticking close to Sherlock, "but I didn't think the Resistance would be able to run around a crime scene unsupervised."

"That won't be the only thing to surprise you," Sherlock said vaguely, to John's extreme discomfort. "The Yard is actually where we find some of our strongest support. Police officers have seen the aftermath of a lot of dragon abuse. It's difficult to turn a blind eye when you can see the proof yourself."

"I know the feeling. Afghanistan, remember?"

Sherlock nodded in approval. "It's the same here. You're rather remarkable, voluntarily jumping from one warzone to another."

John flushed slightly, wondering if Sherlock was even aware that the compliment had passed his lips. "I do my best," he said gruffly. "No point in standing by when you have a dragon."

"My thoughts exactly. John, what do you see here?"

John looked around the flat. It was small, and bordering on shabby, but well cared for—clean. Every single thing seemed to have its place. The only thing that stood out was the, well, glaringly obvious spray of blood on the floor of the sitting area.

"No sign of a struggle," John said after a few moments of thought. "And there was no sign of forced entry either. I would guess that either he knew the murderer, or that the murderer was under the guise of someone they could trust." John chewed on his lip for a second. "You said that the Faction might be behind this?"

"It's possible," Sherlock said, scowling. "Have you had a run in with them before?"

John made a face as he nodded, not particularly enjoying the memory. "They're all mad. Thankfully, I hadn't been inducted into the Riders when they split off. I never had to work with them, but I've had to work with talking them down from making some pretty spectacular messes. The Resistance attempts to stay non-violent. The Faction ruins that image."

"Oi, you two," Lestrade said, pulling a bottle from the kitchen cupboard. "Either of you recognize this?" He tossed the bottle to Sherlock, who caught it deftly.

"Rythmol," Sherlock read aloud.

"Heart medication," John supplied. "Used to control certain arrhythmia."

Sherlock gave him a look and John rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, you're as bad as Teine," John sighed, "She can't believe that I know things either." He shrugged. "I was a medic in the Corps. Some dragons are too big for their hearts and suffer problems because of it. Their hearts try to beat too fast to overcompensate and such. It gave them some atrial problems. A lot of the heavyweight breeds were on propafenone. Rythmol is the same thing."

Sherlock had a thoughtful look on his face for a moment before tossing the bottle back to Lestrade. "It's prescribed to William Brent. Lestrade, did his files say anything about his having a heart condition?"

Lestrade shrugged, looking slightly baffled. "I don't remember seeing it, but I wouldn't have thought that he would have been able to pass the Corps physical. What's he doing in the military with a heart that beats wonky? Isn't it dangerous?"

"Could be," John shrugged. "I'm not sure what Rythmol treats in people*, but the dragons who needed propafenone are still made to fight."

"That doesn't mean much," Sherlock said skeptically. "The Corps will make dragons fight under all kinds of disability and duress. They have to maintain different standards with their soldiers, or people might start noticing that something is wrong."

Sherlock scanned the entire bottle and frowned. "It expired a month ago."

"There's a lot of pills left. And you don't really _stop _taking Rythmol unless the problem is fixed at the source or you get a different medication," John muttered.

"His records don't mention anything about a surgery or procedure," Lestrade said. "So there's something else at work here?"

"There's always something else at work," Sherlock sighed, as though that was obvious. "Especially where the Corps gets involved."

… …

Teine and Vivaldi landed with a thump.

"You're faster than me," Teine stated, as though the idea were offensive. "How the hell are you faster than me?"

Vivaldi shrugged, looking stupidly pleased. "I have lighter weight scale. And bigger wings."

"Longer wings," Teine corrected critically. "Your wing span is longer than mine. As far as surface area is concerned, my wings are considerably larger than yours. Reason stands that I should be able to ride the air currents more effectively. Your speed is stupid and you're somehow cheating."

"You are an overgrown child," Vivaldi declared wearily. "You're just like Sherlock. Refusing to admit that someone might be better than you at something."

"And you're like John, taking the opportunity to rub it in," Teine pouted. "Whatever. Physical exertion is dull. It is the exercise of the mind that is truly important. And in that field, I am undoubtedly superior."

"Yeah but you still lost the race."

Teine huffed and stood outside of their new building.

"This isn't really a flat," Teine pointed out after a moment. "I don't understand why John keeps referring to it as such. This is more of a habitable warehouse."

If Vivaldi were human, he would have shrugged. "For dragons, it's a flat. Haven't you seen where some of the elite house our kind?"

"Civilians are not permitted to own dragons," Teine recited with an air of repetition.

Vivaldi rolled his eyes. "For someone who claims to be intelligent as often as you do, you are spectacularly ignorant about some things."

Teine let out a snarl. "Ignorant?!" Her spiky tail lashed out.

Vivaldi dodged it neatly. "Ignorant," he repeated. "You know everything there is to know about flying formations and combat maneuvers, you can deduce a man's allegiance at a glance, but you don't know a single thing about dragons outside of the Corps."

"I knew what was necessary to know," Teine insisted. "Anything else was just a distraction. There was no point in me learning about dragons outside of the Corps until a few months ago. And I've spent a good deal of that time cooped up in pens while they figure out what to do with me, or cooped up in a bedsit that I was nearly bigger than. So when, exactly, was I supposed to obtain this apparently invaluable information?"

Vivaldi growled softly. "You are an enormous bitch."

"Now _that _is something of which I am not so ignorant," Teine said flatly. "You've already said as much today. Enlighten me with something new."

Vivaldi's tail lashed, but he complied. "Many of the elite keep dragons. They're status symbols. Proof that their influence is more powerful than the Corps. They house them in these ridiculously elaborate estates and deck them out in all sorts of jewels. My brood mare was one such dragoness. She worked directly with the British government, serving as both a body guard and a consultant. As a Breather, the Corps kicked up an enormous fuss that she wasn't breeding. Sherlock's brother Mycroft, who was her caretaker, made an under the table deal. He would keep her if she brooded every five years. Of course, no one could actually make her care for the eggs. I was part of her first nest, and she abandoned us as soon as she possibly could."

"And Sherlock stole you," Teine concluded. "He ran away with your egg."

"I hatched for him," Vivaldi corrected. "He ran away with me a mewling hatchling."

"There's always something," Teine muttered. "You _hatched _for him."

"Rare, I know. But I wasn't built to be a soldier, and I had no desire to waste away in the breeding pens."

"I hatched for John," Teine confided. "My egg was abandoned in front of his school. My nest had been stolen. The Corps found the rest of my siblings in a warehouse, ready to be smuggled, but they had died in their eggs from the poor conditions. We don't know how I ended up where I ended up. I sincerely doubt we will ever know."

"Do you believe in fate, Teine?" Vivaldi asked, a bit wistfully.

Teine sniffed. "Fate is illogical. A security blanket for children and fools."

"I believe in fate," Vivaldi continued, as though Teine hadn't spoken.

"I rest my case," she muttered.

"And maybe you were just supposed to end up with John. Maybe your egg just found him."

"Or maybe some sort of deal went down in a college car park and my egg was somehow left behind in the aftermath."

"Maybe some things are just meant to be," Vivaldi finished. "And if that's the case, then who are we to question it?"

"We are rational, sentient creatures that don't just accept impossible scenarios and move on."

"Will you shut the fuck up and let me have my moment?" Vivaldi finally snapped.

Teine scoffed. "Your moment was dripping with sentiment. I disapprove of it on principle."

They fell into silence.

Vivaldi finally spoke. "So, do you think Mrs. Hudson will let us back inside, or should we break down the door?"

"Let's break down the door," Teine decided. "More fun that way."

… …

Sherlock was digging through the records as quickly as he could, but even he had to admit that the stack in front of him was daunting. It helped that John was sifting through as well, but there was too much information to dig through, especially when the thing they were looking for was glaringly absent.

"Are you sure we should be fixated on this, Sherlock?" Lestrade had asked when he used his contacts to dig up all the paperwork on William Brent. It had taken hours for all of it to be assembled with their very limited and less than legal resources. Now it was late and both Lestrade and John were showing signs of quitting.

"It's anomalous," Sherlock responded for the umpteenth time. "It might be a dead end, it might be key. I'll be able to figure that out once I confirm that Brent's medical condition has been edited out of everything."

It was an exhausting search.

John wasn't arguing, but he was rubbing his eyes more and more as time passed. Lestrade only hung around because he was reluctant to leave them alone with the files.

Near midnight, Sherlock finally quit.

"There's nothing here," he declared. "Nothing at all. More than nothing—there is a distinct absence."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked tiredly.

"Chunks of his medical history is missing," Sherlock responded. "Parts of other files have been redacted. Would a heart condition keep you from being allowed to enlist in the Corps?"

John blinked sluggishly. "Um. Yeah. Depending. I did some more research on Rythmol. If he had a chronic issue with arrhythmias, he wouldn't have been able to handle a lot of the stress. Unless it was fixed up and he was considered fit, or it was minor enough that it didn't bother him."

"If that were the case," Sherlock murmured, "then the files should say so. My guess is that he was enlisted into the Corps with the condition, likely under circumstances unethical enough that someone felt the need for censorship."

"Well," Lestrade said uncertainly. "Good work, lads? Why don't we pick up again in the morning?"

"Sounds good," John said, rubbing his eyes again. "I'm spent."

… …

Vivaldi and Teine lounged around inside. Teine was sulking because Mrs. Hudson had showed up before anyone had the chance to ram the door down. Vivaldi was just tired and wondering if he was going to be allowed to sleep here tonight. It was definitely preferable to sleeping outside, which he had been doing the last few weeks as Sherlock tried to find a new place to stay.

Sherlock entered just after midnight.

"Oh," he said, blinking at Teine. "Your Captain has gone back to his bedsit."

"He can go back there as much as he wants," Teine grumbled. "I'm going to stay here. No way am I going to degrade myself by holing up in that hovel again."

"Did you solve the murder?" Vivaldi asked.

Sherlock frowned. "There were some complicated elements," he pouted.

Vivaldi sighed. "You focused on one stupid aspect of the case again, didn't you?"

"It isn't stupid," Sherlock insisted. "The victim had a heart condition, a diagnosed heart condition he was prescribed medication for, and it never comes up in his records _once._"

"What did he have?" Teine asked. "I worked medic in the Corps, when I wasn't setting things on fire."

"He was taking propafenone," Sherlock sighed.

"Life threatening arrhythmia," Teine declared. "Propafenone isn't a drug prescribed lightly."

"If you had to guess the cause?" Sherlock asked.

"Atrial fibrillation of some sort," Teine suggested. "Or maybe SVT?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "If that's the case, why not get a procedure to fix it?"

"He could have," Teine continued. "The question is: when? He's an adult man, and he had the medication in his flat, correct? He would have been taking the medication recently, then. Otherwise he wouldn't have it around. That means the procedure was recent. Which means-"

"That he had a significant heart condition when he was enlisted into the Corps," Sherlock finished. "They let him in for some reason, even though he shouldn't have been permitted. He didn't get the procedure done until after he'd been there some time. Why this man? Why was it so necessary to bring him into the Corps that they deleted his medical history?"

"I think," Teine said smugly, "that's what you need to focus on. Not the condition, but the circumstances of his enlistment. I'll leave you to it. If you don't mind, I need to get some sleep."

Vivaldi looked at Sherlock. "You two are a match made in heaven," he would have smirked, had he been physically capable of such a facial expression.

"Shut up," Sherlock groaned, stalking off to his new bedroom.

… …

John woke up to the sound of his mobile ringing. He groaned, mourned the loss of sleep pitifully for a moment, and blindly reached for it.

"'Lo," he murmured, trying to remember who he was and how to talk to people politely on a phone.

"Doc," a low, feminine voice greeted with a tinge of amusement.

John sat up in bed, instantly wide awake. "General," he began formally.

"None of that," she chided. "I'm not calling to give you orders, yet. I'm calling to ask you about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes."

John rubbed his eyes. "There isn't really one," he started before he realized that wasn't quite true. "I mean, I suppose there will be soon. I'm moving in with him today."

"You're just moving in with a stranger, then?" the Woman asked skeptically.

"Stamford introduced us," he explained hastily. "And Teine immediately blabbered everyone's secrets, so I know that Sherlock and I are on the same team." John heard it as soon as he said it. "In regards to the Resistance," he added hastily.

The Woman didn't bother trying to conceal her amusement. "Well, there are a few things about Sherlock Holmes that you should know before you get too close."

"I think I'd rather he just tell me things when he's ready," John protested halfheartedly.

The Woman made a sound of disapproval. "No, there are some things he will not tell you, and these things might end up being compromising to the mission."

"Alright then, General," John sighed. "I'm listening."

"Beware his older brother," she started, which was not what John was anticipating at all. "He's very powerful and he's our enemy. He and Sherlock have worked out some sort of agreement. Neither of them interferes with the other, and in exchange they both have a fallback plan."

"Meaning, sir?"

"Meaning that if we lose, if the Resistance is dismantled and those of us who have broken laws are taken into custody, Sherlock will be able to run to his brother and say he was on their side the whole time. The opposite is true. If and when the Resistance takes down the Corps, Mycroft can stand by Sherlock's side and admit that he was secretly a sympathizer the whole time. Both are pleased with the arrangement, but mark my words, Mycroft Holmes is a viper."

"So I should be on my guard then," John surmised. "Keep a look out for the flat being bugged, make sure I don't reveal too much, and don't trust any relatives of Sherlock's."

"He'll likely arrange a 'meeting' sometime soon. Do not under any circumstances let him know who you are. If at all possible, try not to even let on that you sympathize with our cause at all."

"I understand. If that the only area of concern?"

The Woman snorted. "If only. Don't let Sherlock near any illicit substances. That's an order. He's still working to break a nasty cocaine addiction. I don't need him slipping. It's officially your job to make sure he stays clean."

John bit back a groan. He _did not _sign up to be a junkie's baby sitter.

"Yes sir," he said without any audible hesitation.

"Don't let him get bored," she finished. "The last thing I need is that man getting a new hobby. He's invaluable as an asset, but he doesn't seem to understand the concept of loyalty. If he tires of us, he'll move on. I need him, Doc."

"I understand," John assured her. "You have my word. I'll keep an eye on him."

… …

"What if Captain Brent found an egg?" Teine asked Sherlock the next morning.

He looked up from his experiment and scowled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if the same thing that happened to John happened to Captain Brent?" Teine hummed thoughtfully. "We heard that he was watching the egg and it hatched for him, so he kept it by default. What if he wasn't in the Corps and the egg hatched for him? What if they forced enlistment or something like that? And they realized he had health problems, but they needed to keep him in the Corps to avoid any issues, so they gave him an operation and covered their tracks?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's possible."

"I think it's pretty damn probable," Teine grumbled. "You're just jealous that you didn't think of it by yourself."

"That's not it," he huffed. "The records say that he obtained the egg after he was already in the service."

"You mean the records that have so far omitted an enormous part of his medical history? Or his records that were created by a corrupt institution in the first place? Those records? Those records that are so obviously from a reliable source and not manipulated at all?'

Sherlock scowled. "Obsidian was the dragon who intervened. His reports state what happened."

"Again, Sherlock, you focus on the _reports_," she said, rolling her eyes. "I thought that you were supposed to be a brilliant detective. The only information you can trust is what you yourself perceive. I'd talk to Sid in person before I made a single assumption about what he knows."

"I can't possibly expect you to understand my process!" Sherlock finally exclaimed, throwing his experiment to the side and storming off into his room. "Your tiny reptilian brain will never be able to comprehend."

Vivaldi looked up from where he was dozing in the sun.

"I've seen people piss him off with stupidity. I've seen people piss him of with naivety. I've not seen someone piss him off with intelligence since the last time his brother Mycroft tried to insert himself into our lives." Vivaldi regarded her for a moment. "I think you've earned my respect."

"Well," Teine huffed, absurdly pleased and slightly embarrassed. "Someone has to put him in his place. It's not my fault that he gets stuck in a rut."

Vivaldi just shook his head. "I think that John and I are going to end up in an early grave, dealing with you two. I hope we get along. I don't know how I could do this alone."

… …

John packed up his meager possessions with a strange feeling in his stomach. He was feeling…

Well, he was feeling rather guilty, to be honest. He had every intention of moving in with Sherlock last night, but after the phone call this morning, he felt like he was only doing it because he was under orders to. It was dishonest. John kept returning to the same absurd idea that he was somehow betraying Sherlock.

Which was a bit ridiculous. John hardly knew the man. They were practically strangers. Besides, it was Sherlock who invited John to move it. It wasn't as though John had manipulated his way into the detective's life.

And he was going to move in anyway. The added complication of the Woman's demands didn't change the situation. He wasn't even going to be reporting information back. He was just going to make sure that Sherlock didn't fall to old vices, and that Sherlock's brother stayed out of the picture. And that Sherlock didn't get bored. He was probably going to end up doing these things anyway, but that didn't get rid of the guilty feeling.

Knowing that it was now his job to take care of his new friend put a sour taste in his mouth.

It was probably because John just had the habit of being so damn loyal so damn quickly. It had put him in bad situations in the past, when he put his faith in the wrong people. He really hoped that Sherlock wasn't one of the wrong people.

It didn't seem that Sherlock _would _be one of the wrong people, but John knew himself well enough to admit that he might not be in the best frame of mind, especially when being dazzled by stunning intelligent and absolutely heartbreaking silver eyes.

*Rythmol is the brand name for propafenone, used to treat heart arrhythmia. I'm not sure of all of its uses, but it is prescribed to people with SVT (although propranolol can also be used) and it keeps the person's heart rate under control. People with SVT can fall into a dangerous arrhythmia where their heart beats extremely quickly (I've known it to go over three hundred beats per minute). The condition is fixed relatively easily with an oblation, a barely invasive procedure that only takes a few hours. References to this drug and the condition SVT will continue to pop up where Captain Brent is concerned.

(You can follow me on tumble here.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Do you know how difficult it is to get inside information about the Corps when your brother put you on the list of People Not to Talk to? –SH **

John checked the buzz in his pocket and wondered how the hell Sherlock managed to get his mobile number.

**It's very difficult. –SH **

**The fact that I'm managing to do so is very impressive. –SH **

And then a few minutes later.

**I know you're awake, stop ignoring me. –SH **

John sighed and finally texted the madman back.

**Good morning. **

**Sign your texts. –SH **

**Don't you just have caller I.D? **

**What if someone stole your phone? Sign your texts. –SH **

**Why are you texting me before breakfast? JW **

**Lestrade stopped texting me back. –SH **

**Come collect your dragon. She's telling me that I'm doing things wrong and it is very irritating. –SH **

**Is it. JW **

**It is. –SH **

**I'm not doing anything wrong. –SH **

**I meant for the experiment to blow up. –SH **

**Her reptilian brain doesn't understand proper science. –SH **

**You've stopped texting me back again. –SH **

**I'm too busy laughing. I have the feeling that you two are either going to kill each other or become best friends. I can't tell which. JW**

**Yet. JW **

**I don't have friends. –SH **

**Your giant ice breathing dragon would probably take issue with that statement. JW**

**Vivaldi is different. –SH **

**Is he? JW **

**Do you consider Teine a friend? –SH **

John paused for a moment, contemplating the question.

**No. **He texted back after a minute. **She's more. Almost like my other half. **

**The relationship between a rider and dragon is often described as symbiotic. Also, you forgot to sign your last text. –SH **

**I'm heading over now, but I'll need to pop back to my shitty flat later to pack up. You'll have to learn to get along when I do. JW **

**Will be busy with the case later. Please distract your dragon now. –SH **

John put his phone away and dug around his pathetically stocked kitchen. He unearthed a few pieces of bread and made himself toast. He would eat properly later. He had the feeling that he shouldn't leave Sherlock and Teine alone for much longer.

… …

"I swear to God that I will set everything you own on fire," Teine told Sherlock seriously. "You're acting like a prat and an ignorant child."

"Uh oh," Vivaldi sighed from the other end of the sitting room. "You really shouldn't have said that."

"Ignorant?" Sherlock hissed. "Did you really just call me ignorant?"

Teine flicked her tail, unimpressed. "Yup," she said, popping the 'p' slightly. "It's your fault. You're not following the rules."

"The rules are wrong!" Sherlock spat.

"I agree," Teine said calmly. "But they are in place for a reason. Stop being a fussy toddler and make a guess that will actually work. And also move my little white piece for me. I rolled a six last turn."

"I already made my deductions," Sherlock protested. "The victim himself did it!"

"That's not how Cluedo works," Vivaldi reminded him. "Just open up the envelope if you don't believe it."

Sherlock grumbled and opened up the envelope. "Professor Plum? Preposterous!"

There was a knock on the doorframe and John stuck his head in cautiously. Teine felt the rush of calm that always accompanied the appearance of her rider. She hated when they were separated for too long.

"Oh dear God," he said rather blandly. "I can't believe you're letting her play Cluedo."

"He's the one that won't follow the rules," Teine complained.

"It's a stupid game," Sherlock declared, flipping the board and upsetting all the pieces.

"Well, that was unnecessary," Vivaldi scolded.

"And it's your fault!" Sherlock accused, pointing a finger at John. "You took too long to get here."

Teine flopped over on her side, rather like a cat, scattering even more pieces of the game. "I said that if he didn't want me criticizing his methods, he was going to have to give me something else to do."

"They've both been insufferable all morning," Vivaldi complained, rather unfairly, Teine thought. "Sniping back and forth for hours. I wish I hadn't suggested Cluedo. It made everything worse."

John didn't seem to know what to do with the situation in front of him. He disregarded it instead and went to start picking up the scattered remains of the failed game.

Sherlock was pacing around the room, muttering to himself about three different topics at once, making him seem more like a madman than usual.

John watched him as well, looking severely concerned.

"You're not rethinking this, are you?" Teine asked him quietly, her voice involuntarily laced with worry. She loathed to admit it, but she was starting to grow fond of this batshit crazy detective/freedom fighter.

"No…" John trailed off for a few moments before he caught himself. "No. Just…thinking about some things."

There was a slight emphasis there, something that a stranger would miss. Teine knew that they were going to be talking about something later.

Vivaldi got up from his spot on the floor and slithered over to them.

Teine watched him with slight fascination. She never quite got over the way he moved. His legs were proportionally very long, like a deer's, but they were awkward and shaky, not really meant to support the weight of his body. So when he moved, he kept them low to the ground, partially scurrying like a lizard and partially sliding like a snake. His long, sinuous body was much better built for that motion than any other.

He was a mixed breed; that much was easy to tell. Teine had to wonder what his brood mare had been thinking. Mixing breeds had to be done carefully, with a great deal of consideration for the relative strengths of different genes and potential disasters of mixing. Some dragons were just too different, and the offspring became a patchwork of different traits and features. Vivaldi was a beautiful dragon, even Teine had to admit it, but his body was too long and heavy for his limbs. His wings made him unstoppable on the air, but on the ground he was at a severe disadvantage.

Teine was not one of the dragons obsessed with blood purity and staying true to their breed, but she definitely supported cautious mating. She had seen too many hatchlings in the Corps die because their lungs were not big enough for their bodies or because they couldn't find a way to move, other than dragging themselves on the ground.

Mercy killings were one of the few secrets the Corps didn't bother to keep.

Fire and ice, for example, could never mix. The two were opposites, and both were dominant genes. A hatchling's body could not run hot and cold at the same time. The offspring of different kinds of Breathers rarely lived past their hatching.

Teine realized she had been staring at Vivaldi while she was lost in thought, and he was starting to give her a worried look.

"Feeling alright there, Teine?" Vivaldi asked her nervously.

"Fine," she said quickly. "Just lost in thought."

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

"Not particularly," she lied, nudging a few missed cards towards John and he continued to pick up the mess.

… …

Sherlock let his thoughts race. He had to admit (although doing so nearly killed him) that Teine might have a point, and that he would have to follow up on information directly in order to determine its accuracy.

Irene had already texted him twice this morning, waiting for an update on the case. She was getting impatient, used to Sherlock solving something mere hours after it fell into his hands.

Which he would be able to do in this instance, had he any information to work with. As it is, the crime scene was clean even by _his _standards. There was next to nothing to work with. The single anomaly was expired heart medication and an absence of paperwork.

What Sherlock needed was to get into the Corps. Lestrade's sources were tapped out after gathering all the information on Captain Brent. Any other movements on their part might compromise their identity. Irene had finally ordered Sherlock to leave them alone, which grated on his nerves, but he complied.

That left Sherlock without an in.

Then he heard John laughing with Teine and realized that he had been an enormous idiot.

… …

"Yeah, I can't infiltrate the Corps," John sighed. "You seem to be under the impression that I'm currently in good standing with them."

"You were honorably discharged," Sherlock pointed out.

"It was the most grudging honorable discharge ever awarded. They want Teine back more than I care to think about. I'm fairly certain the only reason I haven't been 'taken care of' yet is because Teine knows far more than she should."

Sherlock gave the dragon a long look. Teine was currently cracking pig bones and sucking out the marrow, so the sight must not have been all that pleasant. Before John could say anything, Sherlock seemed to have gathered what he was looking for.

"She's hyperobservant, isn't she?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, she tested positive when she was a year old," John said, not remembering that day fondly at all. "The Corps makes a point of sending the 'gifted' dragons to the front lines as soon as possible, but I wasn't even close to being through with my training. She was stuck with me, and that's how she picked up on more things than the commanding officers wanted her to."

"Remarkable," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "You realize that only one out of every hundred dragons is gifted with hyperobservancy."

"I know," John groaned. "Teine doesn't let me forget it."

"Stop talking about me!" Teine called from the other end of the room. "I don't appreciate it."

"The only consolation for command was that Teine didn't always know what to do with the details she gathered. She couldn't always make the necessary leaps in logic to connect things together," John explained. "But as she got older, she started noticing patterns in things she observed, and from then on…it was a little bit too easy to start piecing some things together."

"And they know she knows," Sherlock confirmed.

"Yes," John sighed. "Or, they should, at least. It's why they haven't let her go, not officially. She's on leave, currently, and she could get called for active duty any day."

"Why haven't they done anything?" Sherlock sounded seriously confused.

John shrugged. "I don't know, and it worries me. Leaving us together has broken their pattern. I think they're afraid that if they push her too hard, she'll do everything she can to ruin them."

"Well, they're already too late on that score, aren't they?" Sherlock pointed out with a grin. "You're already fighting against them."

"With the Riders. And hopefully that isn't something they know."

"Do they have any reason to suspect you? Other than what Teine knows, that is."

John shrugged. "I don't know. I'm a washed up soldier with a bad shoulder and PTSD. They might not see me as a legitimate threat, other than my keeping Teine away, or they could be keeping closer tabs on me than I would like to think about." John fixed Sherlock with a hard look. "That's why I don't think it would be a good idea for me to worm my way back into the Corps for information. I don't want to raise any unnecessary flags."

"But you must have friends in the Corps," Sherlock suggested, sounding a bit desperate. "Ones who won't might doing an odd favor for an old mate."

John was quite for a long time, debating the wisdom over what he was about to say. "I have a mate, a sympathizer, who worked medic with me. He saved my life when I got shot, and he's back in London. He's doing some more training in the Rookery, he's getting ready to become a surgeon. He's a sympathizer, but... I could make some inquiries, but there's no guarantee that they will amount to anything."

"I'll take it," Sherlock said a bit flatly. "I don't have anything else."

… …

Bill Murray was a nice bloke. He kept himself to himself when he was in a group of strangers, but was a riot in a group of close friends. One on one, he gave across as funny, intelligent, and capable.

He was not, however, very pleased with the direction John's conversation had turned.

"You want me to do what?" Bill asked, setting his pint down in shock. "Are you out of your bloody mind?"

"It doesn't have to be covert," John hastily started explaining. "There won't be any clandestine deals in dark alleyways. We—I mean, I—just need someone to ask around about a Captain William Brent. He was murdered the other day and the circumstances are a little weird."

Bill was frowning into his beer.

"Look, you don't have to," John sighed. "It's not even something I need myself. I'm doing a favor to a friend by asking you to help. We just need someone to ask Sid about Brent and how he got his dragon."

"When you say 'friend,'" Bill started warily. "I assume that you mean the friends that I'm not supposed to know exist?"

"Bingo."

John had never told Bill that he was a Rider, that wasn't knowledge to be passed around carelessly, despite opinions held by a certain crazy person and a certain loudmouthed dragon. Bill _did_, however, know that John worked more directly with the Resistance than anyone else who was once part of the Corps. Bill and Mike were John's liaisons for other sympathizers. John's involvement was a more jealously guarded secret.

"So I talk to Obsidian," Bill said reluctantly. "I need the story right from his mouth, then? I'm assuming that the official reports aren't to be trusted."

"Definitely not. The reports are why we've had to go to these lengths. There's a huge chunk of medical history missing. It might be related to how it was killed, it might not, but for right now, that's all we have to go on."

"What do you know about his dragon?"

"Very little," John said with a shrug. "Just that he was a Russian Hunter and that he's being held in the breeding pens until he stops mourning his captain."

Bill bit his lip and didn't say anything.

"You don't have to do this, mate-" John started.

"Did I ever tell you why I stay?" Bill interrupted. "After Teine told me what she had seen, and after I started noticing some things for myself? When the dragons I was treating tried to tell me how they were hurt?" Bill started sliding his pint from hand to hand. "Dragons have an enormous soul. You know they do. Christ, Teine has more personality than most people I've met. Combined. There's so much life in their eyes. They're built to hunt and to kill and to dominate, but they have such a huge capacity for love and affection and friendship."

Bill cleared his throat. "I'm no fighter. I'm made for healing, I can see that much myself. I'll never have my own dragon. I've advanced almost as high up as I ever will in the Corps. I can't stand what they do to dragons, and yet I stay."

Bill seemed to be waiting for John to ask. "Why do you?"

"The same reason you did," Bill said, taking a big drink of his beer. "So I can be sure that there is someone there who will fight for them. Yeah, I'll talk to Sid. I'll ask around. I'll tell you what you need to know." Bill leaned closer to John across the bar. "In exchange, you've got to tell me who killed this kid and why. Because there's a young dragon whose heart has just been ripped in half, and he deserves to know how it happened."

"I promise," John said sincerely, downing the rest of his drink. "Be careful, mate."

"I will," Bill said, but he didn't sound too confident.

… …

Vivaldi watched Teine in horrified fascination. He figured that this must be what it felt like to watch a train derail.

She was pacing around the room, spitting out puffs of smoke, ranting about things that didn't make any sense, and generally breaking things.

"What on Earth is happening?" Sherlock asked, sounding as perplexed as Vivaldi felt.

"She's sulking," Vivaldi explained, almost laughing from the absurdity of it. "Dear God, she's worse than you."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked.

"She's pissed that John keeps running your errands," Vivaldi explained. "He was supposed to move in today, but he's been all over the city, trying to meet up with his contacts in the Corps. He'll have to sleep at the shitty flat again, and Teine's starting to miss him."

"She's a possessive thing, isn't she?"

Vivaldi rolled his eyes. "As are you. I'm not looking forward to the day you two start fighting over John in earnest."

Sherlock looked at Vivaldi like he's lost his mind. "What are you talking about?"

"Your rather blinding attraction to John Watson," Vivaldi answered promptly. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were smitten."

Sherlock flushed. "I am _not._ I treat him no differently than I treat anyone else."

"Sherlock, after two days you were texting him like a needy thirteen year old girl. In a month, well…I dare say you might be falling in love."

"You are absolutely ridiculous."

"He watches you," Vivaldi confided. "I don't even think he realizes it himself. You and Teine sure don't. Which is kind of funny, actually. Because you two are always going on about observation and deduction, but you fail to miss the obvious. I, however, sit on the sidelines. I always have, I probably always will. And I watch. And I can tell you that John is already so far gone there's no coming back."

"You're wrong," Sherlock said defiantly. "Or, you will be. Once he gets to know me better, any of this fictitious attraction you speak of will surely be gone."

"Don't try to push him away," Vivaldi warned Sherlock. "John could be good for you."

"I have you. I already have all I need."

"The era of Sherlock and Vivaldi has ended, my friend," Vivaldi sighed. "As has the era of John and Teine. I've already said my goodbyes. Now it's time for everyone else."


	6. Chapter 6

(A/N:There will not be an update next week or the week after. The week after that is still up in the air. I'm starting my freshman year at college and I'm going to be too busy to get any writing done for a few weeks.)

John got the call from The Woman when he was taking a cab to his new flat/warehouse monstrosity. He saw her number and pinched the bridge of is nose, trying to ward off a headache, before he answered.

"Hello, darling," she said sweetly.

John flinched. He knew that tone. He was about to get some orders that he might not agree with.

"Hello," he greeted politely. "I take it that I have a job lined up?"

"Oh, you're in public," she said. "Alright then, I'll give you the basics now. Send me a text when you're ready for the details."

"Sounds good," John said evenly.

"Yes, something has come up," The Woman continued. "A lead we've been following on and off for the last few months came to fruition about a week ago. Reconnaissance came back an hour ago. I've just finished going through the reports and determined that you're the man for the job."

"Ah. So I'll likely need to get my clothes dry cleaned?"

"Might not be so messy as that," The Woman reassured him. "It shouldn't get violent. We're not our least favorite Faction, after all. We try to avoid getting our hands dirty."

"Though I can't help but notice that I'm the one who gets all of those jobs."

"That's because you're cool in a crisis, darling. Not because I think ill of your moral code. But again, this isn't a legal job, and not a bloody one. It's delicate and I need someone who won't fuck it up."

"Alright then," John sighed, resigned. "I'll text you for the details later."

… …

Sherlock knew that the meeting had gone well as soon as John walked into the flat.

"Good," he said instead of asking how it went. "When can I expect the information?"

John blinked at him for a moment. "I don't know. Subtlety usually takes some time."

"That sounds rather dull."

"Well, that's the best way to get information when you're doing illegal things."

"It's only _mostly _illegal."

"Still counts. Now, if you'll excuse me, Sherlock, I need to make a phone call."

… …

The Woman called a few seconds after John texted her.

"We've finally cracked the egg smuggling ring," she said without preamble. "And before you ask, no it's not the one that Teine was connected to. This one first surfaced about a year ago. We became aware of them a few months later, and I've explained the rest since then."

"Where do I come in?" John asked, feeling slightly confused. This was typically the sort of thing they leaked to the media, letting public outcry force the Corps to do something about it.

"We need to do something a bit drastic," the Woman admitted. "The last busted egg ring ended up giving the Corps a dozen hatchlings. We've decided to move in and intercept the shipment. We're going to take the eggs for ourselves and make sure that they are properly fostered."

"Do we even have enough resources to do that?"

"Don't worry about that. We'll figure something out," the Woman assured him. "We need you to get the eggs out of there."

John sighed. "And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?"

"Well…"

… …

"It sounds dangerous," Teine grumbled. "You're counting on a lot of secondary information."

"That's what I always count on," John admitted.

"I'm coming with you."

"You most certainly are not."

"Why?"

"Because the Corps is keeping an eye on you," John reminded her. "And because you're the only fire breather in the Resistance. If you keep running around, setting things on fire, the Corps is going to do some very simple deductive reasoning and figure out what we've been doing. I want to keep you safe, Teine. That's all there is to it."

…

Sherlock waved John off when he said that he had to do Resistance work that night and wouldn't be around. Sherlock wasn't concerned about that. He was more concerned with some of the information sitting in front of him.

One of Lestrade's sources came through. Sherlock would need John's friend Bill Murray to confirm it, but it looked as though there was not a single truth in Brent's records.

According to the report Sherlock was reading, William Brent was backpacking with some friends when they came across an abandoned nest of dragon eggs in the Alps. All the eggs had died but one, which hatched for him.

He alerted the Corps, unsure of what to do with a hatchling. The baby dragon refused to part from his new friend and Brent was forcibly drafted into the Corps.

Oh, they sweetened the deal. They promised him a lucrative career and a fancy ablation to fix the heart condition he was born with, but he was forced nonetheless.

"Well, enlisted under duress might be more accurate," Sherlock mused to Vivaldi, who looked up at him sleepily before deciding that it wasn't worth it, and curling back up to sleep.

… …

Teine dropped him off a kilometer away from the warehouse.

"Are you sure that I'm not supposed to come with you?" she asked, distressed. "Because I really think that I could simplify this. By, you know, setting everything on fire."

"Teine, we've talked about this," John reminded her. "If I'm not back in an hour, you can come looking for me."

"I don't like this," she grumbled for the millionth time. John just shushed her and started walked towards the warehouse.

Teine curled up and watched him go.

… …

John took out his phone and made a call.

"This is King, the line is secure," a gruff voice answered.

"This is Doc, I'm en route." John felt the adrenaline spike as he skulked through alleyways and brushed past some of London's less respectable individuals.

"What's your ETA?"

"About five more minutes."

"Transport is already in place," King told him. "One block before the warehouse, there is a small pub. Outside the pub, you will find three men and one woman. The woman is smoking a cigar, one of the men is wearing a leather jacket. You will not approach them directly. You will nod to the woman and keep walking. They are your team for this evening and they will follow at a safe distance. Once you arrive at the rendezvous, they will introduce themselves and go over the plan. After that, you're in and out in twenty minutes."

"Understood. I am approaching the pub."

"Then I'll sign off. Good luck, Doc. Over and out."

John hung up and slipped the phone back inside his jacket pocket. He passed by a group of people that consisted of…yes, one woman and three men. He made eye contact with the woman, nodded once, and kept walking.

… …

Vivaldi got bored of watching Sherlock work and decided to chase after Teine. After all, he was fully capable of helping with Resistance work. He had done it before, anyway.

He tracked her increasingly familiar scent to the sort of neighborhood where Sherlock met his contacts on the street. She was lying on the top of a block of shitty flats, curled tightly around herself and her tail lashing violently.

Vivaldi landed his usual not-very-graceful landing and sat down next to her.

"Irritated?" he asked.

"I wish I was a boring dragon," Teine sighed. "Like an English Hunter. I wish there was so many of my breed here that they wouldn't recognized me in Resistance work."

"John's doing something covert, then?"

"As always," she huffed. "He received some special ops training, which I didn't get of course because I'm as conspicuous as a zeppelin. The Woman loves to use that training for herself."

"I'm sure he'd take you if he could," Vivaldi suggested hesitantly.

Teine snorted. "Probably not. I could squish him with my foot but the idiot still thinks that he's supposed to take care of me. I don't know what I'm going to do with him."

Vivaldi set his tail over hers, trying to ease the lashing. "Don't worry, he'll be alright."

"I know _that_," she muttered petulantly. "John is brave and strong. He can take care of himself. I just…don't like the idea of him being alone. Now and then he just _does _stuff like this. He just does stuff without me and I don't understand why."

There was a pause.

"Sometimes Sherlock leaves me for days at a time," Vivaldi confided. "He doesn't say a word. He just walks out, does what he has to do, and then comes back like nothing happens. I hated it when I was young. We got into horrible fights about it, but at that point he was usually off doing drugs when he disappeared, so it was a bit different then."

"Um. I'm sorry?"

"Now he just has to leave occasionally," Vivaldi continued. "I still don't know what he does. Not drugs, though. Not anymore. He just clears his head and comes back a slightly more agreeable person. I let him go and drives me bloody insane the whole time and I nearly have a severe panic attack, but I let him go."

There was another pause.

"And you let yours go, too," Vivaldi sighed. "We both do. They leave in different ways. John for his missions and his work, Sherlock for God knows what. It kills us, but we let them leave."

"I don't like it," Teine groaned. "I never need a break from him!"

"They are different than us," Vivaldi reminded her. "Dragon imprint at birth. We find our families when we hatch. We create our packs and do whatever we can to keep them together. Humans need to find themselves. They need to know who they are when they aren't dependent on another person or creature or anything for survival. We got our humans too young. They didn't know how to be themselves yet. Now and then they have to remind themselves that they are human, that they are not simply half of a whole, but an independent entity onto themselves. So now and then they run off and leave us behind."

Teine gave Vivaldi a look. "You're smarter than I've given you credit for."

"I know. Thanks for finally noticing."

… …

The rendezvous was the building opposite the warehouse. As promised, the back door was unlocked and John let himself in. Then he waited, going over the plan in his mind, until the door opened again. John drew his pistol, just in case, and relaxed when he recognized the woman with the cigar.

"Hello," she said, smiling. She was young, almost too young to be smoking a cigar, with hair dyed black and skin that looked like it hadn't seen a ray of sunshine in years. "I'm Snow White. This is Grumpy, Bashful, and Sneezy."

"And I'm Doc," John said, rolling his eyes. "Alright, I get it. Had your fun?"

"Couldn't resist," Snow said, smiling. She tapped the last of the ash off her cigar and tossed it on the ground, grinding the stub with her heel of her trainers to make sure it was out.

John looked the three men up and down. Grumpy was aptly named. He stood protectively behind Snow and glared threateningly at John. He was the backup then, there to make sure that nothing happened to the girl. She must be more important than she looked if she had her own guard.

Bashful and Sneezy were both muscle, enforcers of a sort. They weren't there for brains or planning, but the heavy lifting, John had to guess. Although, he shouldn't make that sort of assumption, he reflected. His time in the Corps had showed him that a lot of 'meat heads' were more than they appeared.

"So what's the plan, Doc?" Snow asked, giving him the same appraising look he had given her men. "I hear the Woman handpicked you for this. You must be good at what you do."

"I'll say the same about you," John said, grinning slightly. "You're…what, twenty years old?"

"Nineteen," Snow corrected. She tapped her temple. "But I've always been a Brain. I decided that there was a better use for it than statistical analysis and theoretical physics."

"So now you're breaking into a warehouse," John mused, reminding himself that he had fought alongside men her age and younger. Age was relative. It said nothing about how capable a person was. "Sounds like fun."

"Better than Uni."

"Agreed." John pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He grabbed a pencil from his coat pocket as well. "This is the layout of the warehouse. Recon tells us that the eggs are being held here." He circled one of the room. "However, there's always the chance the eggs have shifted location, so we shouldn't pin our hopes on that."

"They're planning on moving the eggs tomorrow night," Snow interrupted. "I doubt they'll move them unnecessarily until then. They wouldn't want to risk putting the eggs in poor conditions. If the hatchlings die, they'll be useless."

"Agreed," John said with a nod. "CCTV points here," he made a tick mark on the paper with a pencil. "here, here, here, and here."

Bashful let out a low whistle.

"Any reason it's got so much coverage?" Sneezy asked.

"It used to be a private warehouse," Snow informed them. "The owner had a ton of security cameras set up. After the owner went bankrupt the house was repossessed and a lot of the cameras were converted over to CCTV. However, you don't need to worry about those. That's why I'm here."

"You're a hacker, then?" John asked, impressed.

Snow nodded. "Told you I was a Brain. Grumpy's got my tech. I can hack the signal from in here and give you guys a clear shot inside. I'm blind after that, though."

"After that point it's just carrying the eggs," John assured her. "We need to get them out through here," John traced a path from the room were the eggs were supposedly stored and out a back way. "Transport is set to drive over and finish loading up fifteen minutes after we enter. Are you keeping an eye on the perimeter, then?"

"Leave that to me and Grumpy," Snow assured him. "I've got earpieces. We'll radio in if the situation changes, but we don't expect to be interrupted. The only concern are the guards inside."

"We'll take care of them," John sighed. "Just knock outs," he ordered Sneezy and Bashful. "We're avoiding bloodshed as far as possible. No killing at all, if it can be helped."

"We understand," Sneezy said with a nod.

"Yes," Bashful agreed.

"Alright, then," John said, straightening up. "Let's do this."

"Not yet," Snow stopped them. She reached out a hand to Grumpy, who passed her a messenger bag. "Just in case I fuck up, you lot will need plausible deniability." She reached into the bag and pulled out three Guy Fawkes masks. "Rebellion and conspiracy, anyone?"

… …

"Can you read me?" Snow asked through the earpiece.

"Crystal clear," John said absently, scanning the darkened street, wishing his vision wasn't obscured slightly through the goddamn mask. "Waiting on your mark."

"Working on it," she muttered. A few minutes passed when she let out a noise of triumph and said, "You're officially invisible. You're good to go."

"Move out," John ordered Sneezy and Bashful. The three of them hurried across the street and stopped at the chain link fence.

"Climb over," Snow suggested. "There's no barbed wire and it's not electrified. There's five minutes before Guard A makes his rounds outside. If you move quickly, you'll make it."

John said a silent prayer, pleading that neither his shoulder nor his leg would freeze up on him, and started up the fence. Sneezy and Bashful, listening with their own earpieces, followed him.

They were over and on the other side in three minutes.

"There are crates at three o'clock," Snow said. "You can duck behind them until Guard A passes."

"Negative," John disagreed. "I'm sending Sneezy and Bashful in. I'll take care of Guard A."

There was a pause. "Whatever floats your boat, Doc."

"Head in," John ordered Sneezy and Bashful. "Stay low and try to find cover. Guard B should be on the second floor right now. Guard C will be outside the target room. Bashful, you head upstairs and take care of Guard B. Sneezy, you wait for Bashful's signal and take out the last guard. I'll be inside as soon as possible."

Guard A was coming around their corner.

"Move out!"

The two men rushed across the grounds as John jumped the guard. John had him immobilized and pressed against the outer wall before the poor man could even reach for his weapon.

Guard A was trembling and begging, and John knew that he must make a freaking terrifying sight. The Guy Fawkes mask was just disturbing enough that John probably looked more like a psychotic serial killer than anything else.

John just cut off the man's airflow until he passed out. Then he let his unconscious body slump to the ground. He stayed low and quickly made his way around the side of the warehouse.

"Do you come in, Doc?" Sneezy asked through the earpiece.

"Loud and clear."

"Bashful's just gone up. Guard C is in my sights. He's not moving yet. We'll let you know when you can come in."

"Right. Over and out."

John waited by the back door for two minutes when Bashful came in with, "All clear, Doc. We're ready for you."

John rushed inside and stepped over Guard C, to the room absolutely filled with crate after crate of dragon eggs.

"Oh shit," John breathed.

Snow made a distressed noise. "What's wrong?"

"This is going to take a lot longer than we thought."


	7. Chapter 7

(A/N: I'm back! Thank you for being so patient, updates should once again continue regularly.)

Sherlock found the anomaly.

That should have cleared some things up.

He really wished that cleared some things up.

However.

No.

"Why do you think he was killed?" Sherlock asked no one in particular. He frowned at the silence and looked around, realizing for the first time that he was in the only one in the flat.

Where did everybody go?

… …

John had never seen so many dragon eggs in his life. And he once worked the nursery at the Aerial Corps, so that was saying something.

"Doc?" Snow came through the earpiece again. "I don't have a visual, you're going to have to tell me what we're working with."

"About eighty eggs, give or take a dozen," John sighed, rubbing his face. "God, and most of them look like they come from heavyweight dragons. I don't know what we were expecting, but I sincerely doubt that we have enough transport for all of these eggs."

"I'll make some calls," Snow assured him. "Just start with the heavy lifting. You've only got fifteen minutes."

"You're kidding," Sneezy muttered. "There's no way we can lift all of these out in fifteen minutes."

"We'll get as many as we can," John said, moving to the wall to pull out one of the empty crates stacked against it. "We should be able to fit six eggs in a crate. We'll take turns. One person loads the crates, the other two carry it out. These eggs are counting on us, so we don't really have any other choice."

… …

"How much longer before you give up and just start chasing after John?" Vivaldi asked, watched Teine grow more and more restless.

"Twenty minutes," Teine hissed. "This is ridiculous. This is the longest hour of my entire life. Why can't John just sit still for once?"

"He's a soldier," Vivaldi reminded her. "And soldiers have to fight for something."

… …

Sweat was pouring down John's forehead after ten minutes.

Snow followed through and more transport arrived, but they were still on a timetable. They were scheduled to be out of there in five minutes, but they hadn't even packed away half of the eggs.

Fortunately, Snow also radioed in for more muscle, but they had yet to arrive.

"What could go wrong if we stick around a few extra minutes?" Sneezy asked Snow through the earpiece, gasping for breath after helping John carry another crate.

"It's a precaution," Snow answered him. "If we stick around for too long, someone might notice. And we really don't want the authorities to catch a whiff of this. Could you imagine what would happen if the Corps got ahold of all these eggs?"

"Right," Sneezy sighed, stretching his arms. "My turn to pack the boxes."

"ETA on the extra help?" John asked, moving to help Bashful carry out the next crate.

"Any second," Snow assured him. "Don't worry, Doc. We'll get everything out safe and sound."

… …

John breathed a sigh of relief when the back of the last truck finally shut.

It turned out that 'extra help' meant two dozen people who poured in the building with disturbing efficiency, packed up the eggs in record time, and poured out again in less than five minutes.

"Back to rendezvous, Doc," Snow reminded him in the earpiece. "We need to keep surveillance for a while longer. That many people _had _to attract some notice."

"Right," John said, heading back to the building across the street. "Right, yeah. Nothing odd about thirty people wearing masks, smuggling crates out of a heavily guarded warehouse."

"Not the covert operation it was supposed to be," Snow admitted. "But I can't say that I've ever been recognized for my subtlety."

John thought of the eye catching girl, calmly smoking a cigar like it was the most natural thing in the world for her.

"No, I can see what you mean."

"Exactly. I'll take that as a compliment. Welcome back, Doc." The last bit was directed to his face as he stepped in through the back door. Grumpy was there, calmly packing up Snow's things, and Snow herself was perched on the table, watching John with a tired sort of approval.

"Are we in the clear?" John asked, taking off the stupid mask for the first time.

"I think so," Snow said, smiling. "But I'll be keeping an eye out, just in case. The last thing we need is for the Corps to come poking their noses in where they don't belong."

"Can't have that," John agreed, watching the security feed on Snow's laptop as the last truck drove away into the darkness. "Damn, that's a lot of eggs."

"About three times more than we were anticipating," Snow sighed, sounding exhausted. "I was trying to stay calm, but it was hell trying to get the extra transport and men here on such short notice."

"I can imagine," John said, rubbing his aching arms. "I'm glad you managed, though."

"Well, anything for the cause," Snow said cheerily, hopping down from the table.

"How did you get involved, if you don't mind my asking?" John said, unable to reign in his curiosity any longer.

Snow just smiled. "That's a long story. One that involves an evil queen, a treacherous huntsman, a handsome prince, and a poison apple."

John rolled his eyes. "Sorry for prying."

"No, it's fine. It really is just a long story. I'll be sure to tell it to you someday. It's my best story though, so I try to save it for last."

"If we ever work together again, then sure."

"We will," Snow assured him, offering a huge smile. "I just got promoted to Rider. We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Doc."

… …

Teine was ready to burn the whole world down when John finally arrived. He was _late._ He was five whole minutes late, and it really was very fortunate that Teine had the patience of a saint, because otherwise she didn't think that anyone could hold her responsible for her actions.

Vivaldi had gone back home after the time was up, so Teine simply scooped John up, plunked him onto her back, and took off flying.

"Teine! I'm not strapped in!"

"Strap in quickly, then," she bossed. "We're heading home right now, whether you're ready or not. Honestly, John. You can't expect me to hang around any longer, you were already late."

"By five minutes!"

"People can die in a lot less than five minutes, John!"

"Is that a cautionary fact or a threat?"

"Both."

… …

Sherlock asked Vivaldi where he had gone off to, figured out the answer for himself after observing the dragon for several seconds, and seeing that the answer had to do with Teine, turned away in a jealous huff.

Vivaldi slithered over to where Sherlock was sulking. "Teine is bringing John back now."

"I don't see what that has to do with me."

"Just thought you might like to know," Vivaldi sighed, looking up at Sherlock with big, blue eyes. "I'm sorry I left for so long."

Goddamn Vivaldi and his mastery of the sad eyed look. "It's fine," Sherlock said quickly. "I just didn't appreciate not having anyone to talk to. Mrs. Hudson took my skull away again, you know."

"I recall. You threw a rather large fit while I was having a kip in the sun. Don't worry, Teine loves to argue with you. I'm sure she'd listen to a few theories before we all go to bed for the night."

"Ugh sleeping. I don't know how you lot manage to sleep so much. You slept half the day away today and you talk about sleeping again.

Vivaldi rolled his eyes. "You could stand to get a couple hours of sleep yourself."

Sherlock frowned. "No, I couldn't possibly. I have a case on right now."

"Of course," Vivaldi sighed. "And a case is always more important than health. I'll just be in the sitting room, yeah? At least one us should be well rested."

… …

John was exhausted when Teine finally landed. He climbed off her back and stumbled into the darkened flat.

"Took you long enough," said a voice from the shadows, scaring the utter shit out of John.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John scolded, clutching at his chest. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

"Unlikely," Sherlock said, stepping into the light. "You're still fairly young and in good shape. Unless, of course, you have a family history. I haven't had a chance to look through all the medical records and factor them into my deductions."

John let that wash over him. "Yeah, I'm not even going to ask."

"You probably shouldn't. Ah, there you are, Teine, I have a few ideas I would like to talk to you about."

"Oh, so _now _you want my advice," Teine said, sounding smug. "Sure thing, genius. I'll listen to what you have to say."

"Well, if you're going to be rude about it-"

John left them to their bickering and wandered over to his new bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had been busy, he noted, as it was already set up with sheets and bedding and everything.

He stripped down to his boxers and crawled under the covers, ready just to put this night behind him. He was due to give his report to the Woman in the morning, but until then he was gifted with a few blessed hours of rest.

… …

Sherlock checked the caller I.D. before answering, setting his notes on the Brent case reluctantly aside.

"What do you want?" he asked Irene flatly.

"There's been another murder," Irene started without preamble. "The Aerial Corps is investigating. There's no way they're behind this one. A prized Captain of theirs was shot-"

"Execution style in his flat," Sherlock finished for her, making the deductive leaps. "What do we know about him?"

"A lot more than we knew about Brent," Irene said. There was the sound of papers rustling before she spoke again. "His name was Edwin Cortez. He enlisted in the Corps when he was twenty. He got through training with stunning results. He was very promising in every aspect: intelligent, athletic, eloquent, charming."

"But?"

"He kept getting passed over when the higher ups were assigning new captains for the dragons. There were always special circumstances, like in Watson's case, or Brent's. Then Cortez responded to a tip that a family out in Surry was hiding a hatchling in their basement. He confirmed that they were, seized the baby dragon, and was assigned as her captain. Captain Cortez was never sent to front lines because his dragoness, an English Hunter her first owners named Jade, refused to really accept him as her captain. She stopped fighting him after a few months, but they could never trust her in battle. She's a gorgeous dragoness and they kept her around for demonstrations or televised events. You've probably seen her, she's on the brochures for the Aerial Corps."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I think I know what you're talking about. I've seen her before. Jade, was it? I'm guessing she refused to respond to anything else."

"You know as well as I do that dragons take their naming very seriously. They won't switch it, they won't be trained to answer to another." More papers rustled. "So Captain Cortez wasn't exactly a decorated soldier, more of a ceremonial one. He kept to himself, wasn't too ambitious, didn't stick his nose where it didn't belong, but he was the smiling face of the Aerial Corps. No, they wouldn't have touched him. This was definitely the work of someone else."

"Most likely of our least favorite Faction," Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Yes, I'll look into it. It's tied to Brent anyway, and I'm nearly stuck there."

"What? The infallible Sherlock Holmes can't move forward in a case?" Irene asked, her voice heavily sarcastic.

"I'm waiting for new information," Sherlock protested, glaring at his useless notes. "You can't expect me to work on as few details as I-"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she interrupted, her voice breathy with excitement. "There's sign of forced entry at the flat."

Sherlock sat straight up in his chair. "There's what?"

"The crime scene is a mess. The lock was picked, there was a struggle between Cortez and the attacker."

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. "Why didn't you say so? I need to get in there."

"Hold your horses, pretty boy," Irene warned. "What have I been saying? The Corps is digging deep into this one. It's Lestrade's contacts in the Yard that's given us as much as we have. You won't be catching a glimpse of this crime scene."

Sherlock nearly crushed his phone is frustration. "Are you kidding me?! You know how I work, Irene. I need to see-"

"Calm down," she snapped. "We've got pictures. Loads and loads of pictures. You'll get all the details we have, but you can't go there yourself."

"Visual data isn't everything," he grumbled. "I need to smell, to touch, to taste-"

"I really hope you're not licking evidence again. I thought Greg talked to you about that."

"The point remains, I need to use all my senses. I can't come up with as much from pictures."

"Well, pictures is what we've got for you, so do your best. We're relying on you, Holmes. We have to figure this out before the Corps starts pointing the finger at their favorite scapegoats. Namely, us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a gesture lost via phone. "We'll be fine. They have no more proof than we do. Send me the images and I'll tell you what I come up with, but I'm not making any promises."

… …

John woke up midmorning and stumbled to the kitchen to grab himself some breakfast. He was munching contentedly on toast when both Teine and Vivaldi lifted their heads at the same time.

"Someone's here," Vivaldi said, getting up and slithering to Sherlock's room.

"It's the Corps," Teine said, sounding panicked. She ran about, swiping at Sherlock's things until they were on a big pile on the ground, which she immediately draped herself over. "Sherlock isn't here. Vivaldi doesn't exist. You moved in last night. That's what you were doing all night last night."

Sherlock poked his head out of his bedroom. "Battle stations?"

John was on his feet, trying to fix his hair and straighten his clothes. Like an idiot, he had redressed himself in the things he was wearing the night before. If a security feed had caught him…

"I'll text Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said quickly. "She provides a very convincing fake alibi on a moment's notice. Useful woman, Mrs. Hudson."

"He was moving in last night," Teine repeated. "Quickly John, they're going to ring any second."

There was a buzz of a doorbell just as she finished speaking. Teine lowered her head and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. Sherlock slunk back into his bedroom and shut the door. John straightened his shirt, put on a blank expression and answered the door.

"Major Thomson," John said, greeting the familiar soldier with a forced smile. "How did you even know that I lived here?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you," Thomson said, forcing his way in with two other unknown soldiers. "And we know that you live here with Sherlock Holmes and his illegal dragon, so they come out of hiding."

Sherlock's bedroom door opened and he entered with utter confidence, as though he hadn't just been cowering quietly in a different room. "Gentlemen. How can I help you? Tea?"

Vivaldi poked his nose out but stayed in the other room.

"We aren't here for you, Mr. Holmes," Major Thomson said. "We just wanted to ask Captain Watson if he would come with us to answer a couple of questions."

"He isn't going anywhere without me," Teine said, abandoning the fiction of sleeping. She sprawled carelessly in the sitting room, displaying her power and size to the best of her ability.

"It won't take long," Major Thomas assured her. "We're sure it's nothing, just a mistake that needs to be cleared up. Now, Mr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to follow me."

John looked helplessly at Sherlock and Teine before nodding and following Major Thomas out of the flat.

… …

"Get him back," Teine ordered as soon as the front door closed.

"Working on it," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm just going to have to call Mycroft. Lord, do I hate owing that man favors."


	8. Chapter 8

They were, at the very least, maintaining the farce that they really were gently escorting John away in order to politely ask him a few questions.

Questions about potentially innocent topics. Such as the reasons for his discharge or whether he knew Sherlock was in the resistance. It might not have anything to do with his involvement at all. And hell, if it did, they had no way of knowing that he was one of the riders. It wasn't a crime to have unpopular political opinions in the UK. Whenever someone did, people just avoided talking to them at parties.

See? No harm done.

But this was, however, the Corps, and they weren't known for subtlety. The fact that they knew where to find John at all was not a pleasant thought. He hadn't filled out any of the change of address forms. The only way they would know at all is if Major Thomson was telling the truth and they _had _been keeping an eye on John.

Now that was a terrifying thought. John had been lying low for weeks, but the last few days had been eventful. It was only a matter of time before the Corps realized that something was wrong, anyway.

… …

The detective scowled at his phone, trying to figure out a way of getting John out of interrogations without having to A) break the law and B) call his brother.

It didn't look like there were any available options. Well, not feasible ones anyway. Unless…? No, the plan with the goats definitely wouldn't work.

Swallowing his pride, Sherlock thumbed through his contacts, selected on of his least favorite names in the whole world, and hit send.

He waited, listening to the ring before Mycroft's voice finally came through the other line.

_"Sherlock, brother dear. What do I owe this absolute pleasure?" _

"I need a favor," Sherlock said, choking on the words. "A big one. It has to do with the Corps."

_"Did one of your little rebel friends land themselves into a spot of trouble? Well, it's a shame that I don't care at all." _

"My new flatmate has been taken in for questioning."

_"Flatmate? You mean that sad looking Corps captain? You actually moved in with him?" _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, not that it is of any importance to you. I just need you to call off the dogs. I won't be able to make rent if John goes to prison, and I really don't think you want to ire of a rather large fire breathing dragoness."

There was a beat of silence on the line. _"So you really befriended John Watson of all people?" _

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's not what you think, Mycroft. I just don't want Teine getting mad at me."

_"Sherlock Holmes, scared at last?" _

"Of Teine? Of the poorly tempered and bossy lizard beast that can cook me where I stand? Of _course _I'm scared of her. Anyone in their right mind would be."

_"I'm happy to see that you've finally managed to get ahold of a sense of self preservation. I wish you the very best in your endeavors to see your friend to safety; however, I decline this chance to get involved." _

"I'll make you a trade," Sherlock finally offered.

There was another beat of silence. _"What would you be willing to give up?" _

… …

John was introduced to his interrogator an hour after he was pulled out of his new home.

"Hello, John," a pretty and pleasant woman greeting him, sitting on the other side of the interrogation table. "My name is Mary Morstan, and I'm going to be asking you a couple of questions."

John let himself grin and nodded in acknowledgement. "Proceed," he said calmly, although he was internally shrieking in confusion, wondering why on earth he was being interrogated by a civilian.

Mary had a small file folder with her, which she opened up and started flipping through absentmindedly. "You have quite the impressive service record," she said, the compliment sounding sincere. "Very eventful. It must have been quite the transition, sinking back into civilian routines after spending half of your life out of them."

She seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer, to John obliged, "It was definitely an adjustment," he allowed, keeping his expression neutral. "I had Teine with me, though, so I was never bored."

"Yes, Teine. It must have been hard to find a place for her."

John nodded. "Yes, that's how I met Sherlock Holmes. He was looking at a space big enough to house dragons. I happened to have a dragon that needed a proper home. It worked out."

"And did you know he was a registered member of the Rebellion?"

"I knew that he had an illegal dragon, but that was the extent of it," John lied. "It was my understanding that he had worked out some sort of deal with the government that allowed him to keep Vivaldi. If that's not the case, then I apologize for not reporting him. He's...a bit of an odd character. I decided to take him at face value until I understood him better. He said he wouldn't get in trouble for Vivaldi and I really needed a place for Teine."

"I understand," Mary said, tapping a pen against the side of her face. "We can't know everything about everyone."

"No we can't," John agreed.

"Okay," Mary said, still smiling. "There's just a few more questions I would like to ask you."

"Fire away."

"Where were you last night?"

"I was moving some of my stuff into the new flat. I didn't get much done, just set the bedroom up with sheets and things. After that, Sherlock, Teine, Vivaldi and I talked. Still trying to get to know each other and all that."

"And that's where you were all night?"

"Well, I went to sleep after a point, but yes."

Mary didn't looked impressed. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her file folder. "Then this isn't a CCTV shot of Teine wandering London?"

John schooled his expression and mentally cursed his dragoness.

"No, that's her," he replied honestly.

"Is there a particular reason she was loose in the city?"

"I don't keep her on a leash," John said, bristling. "She isn't a pet. Or something to be controlled. She does what she wants to do. She tries not to break anything or hurt anyone. There's no harm in letting her stretch her wings."

"But you said she was in the flat all night."

"No, I didn't," John said, avoiding that little trap. "I said that I was. Teine goes in and out as she pleases. Is this really the problem? This is the reason I was dragged out of my flat? You could have just asked Teine."

Mary fixed him with a level look. "What do you know about egg smugglers?"

John paused for a fraction of a second and hoped that Mary hadn't noticed. But based on the way she grinned, John knew that she had spotted it. Well, truth then.

"A bit," John replied, trying to be as honest as possible. "I've seen some of the operations up close. While in the Corps, I was involved in an investigation relating to Teine's egg. We still don't know how she ended up in the front of my college. As for the inner workings or the complicated connections they always seem to have…I've got nothing. It wasn't my division."

"We just find it a bit curious that Teine was prowling about ten minutes away from where an enormous smuggling ring was infiltrated and broken down."

So _that's _what it was. The Corps had moved in on the warehouse, found it empty, and Teine's proximity was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. John mentally sighed. He should have made Teine stay home.

"Teine comes and goes," John repeated. "I don't ask her where she is or what she's doing, that's her business. It's very likely she just noticed something was going on and decided to investigate."

"The entire cargo hold had been cleared out," Mary said, looking at some other papers. "The Corps had been watching that operation for days, trying to take it down cleanly and legally. But someone swooped in and stole billions of dollars of dragon eggs right under our nose." She set down the file folder abruptly. "Do you understand the implications of this, Captain Watson?"

She didn't give John the chance to speak before continuing. "It means that nearly a hundred dragon eggs are in the hands of people who can't be trusted with them. You could create an army with that many eggs."

John knew that. He was terrified that was the Woman's endgame.

But it wouldn't be. The Woman was a lot of things, but she wasn't war hungry. She would follow through on her word, make sure that the eggs were fostered properly and that the dragons were free to live long and happy lives.

But that would be an ideal world.

And John stopped believing in an ideal world a long time ago.

Mary regarded John silently for a long time.

"I think you're hiding something from me, Captain Watson," Mary finally said, smoothing her hair and straightening the collar of her blouse. "I think that there's something big you don't want me to know."

"I've been nothing but forthcoming," John pointed out, giving her an amiable grin.

"Yes, and that's what worries me," she said, sounding resigned. "You soldier types...I need to pry birth dates out of your kind. It's the ones who aren't evasive that are hiding something."

"What do you think I'm hiding, then?"

"I think you know a lot more about the smuggling ring than you're telling us. I think you know the Rebels moved in and stole all the eggs. And I think Sherlock Holmes has something to do with all of it."

"Sherlock? Why?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "You were on the front lines, but everyone on this end of the battlefield knows who Sherlock Holmes is and exactly how many pies he's got his fingers in. Whenever something doesn't make sense, Sherlock Holmes is involved."

"Well, what doesn't make sense? I've gotten to know the man. I might be able to help."

"Ah, now I really know that you're hiding something. You wouldn't sell Sherlock out so easily."

John opened his mouth to reply when the door to the interrogation room opened. Major Thomson entered, looking like he found a dead spider in his coffee.

"You're free to go," he told John, his voice dripping with disgust. "Orders from on high."

Mary looked furious. "You're kidding! He's hiding something!"

"Of course he is!" Major Thomson snapped back, as though John wasn't in the room. "But we've got a direct order from the highest authority that he's to be released and this…incident be wiped clean from his records." Major Thomson clenched his teeth for a second. "So you'll have to turn over any notes you might have made so they can be destroyed."

John turned to Mary with a smile. "Well, it's been nice to meet you."

"Fuck off."

"Alright, see you later then."

… …

_"You did what?!" _Irene screeched through the phone. _"Sherlock! How could you? You compromised our sources and lost us valuable information!" _

"As though you don't have copies," Sherlock scoffed.

_"Sherlock, we had information that your brother didn't. This could ruin everything!" _

"He wants the case solved just as badly as we do," Sherlock reminded her. "And I gave him all my notes as part of the deal as well. If anything, having more people on this case will just unravel it faster."

_"But now the Corps knows that we're investigating! They know everything that we know about these murders. They know that we've uncovered another one of their dirty secrets. That's ammunition we can't fire anymore, Sherlock." _

"I know," Sherlock sighed, sounding contrite for the first time in the entire conversation. "And I'm sorry. But the alternative was John undergoing hours of interrogation."

_"John's a soldier! He's trained to withstand torture! He would have been fine."_

"Or, he would have let just one thing slip and they would figure everything out. The entire Resistance is a few good guesses away from completely falling apart. We couldn't have John even _implying _something."

There was silence over the line. _"Fine,"_ Irene finally said. _"But I'm not happy you turned the entire investigation over to your brother." _

"If it makes you feel better, I hadn't yet received the crime scene photos when I gave it all to him. So I still have those."

_"That does make me feel better." _

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a murder to solve."

… …

After John returned home, after Teine was barely restrained from pouncing on him and crushing him in her joy, after John awkwardly thanked Sherlock for his help and the two shared tentative, blushing smiles, Vivaldi and Teine curled up next to each other outside, out of their riders' ear shot.

"They're idiots," Teine sighed.

"Yup," Vivaldi agreed. "It's getting a bit painful to watch, actually."

"I mean, they're right in front of each other."

"Exactly. That's why it hurts. Maybe we should do something to help?"

"Interfere in the love lives of our humans? Why Vivaldi, I must be corrupting you after all."

"It's not my fault they're too dense to do anything but dance around each other and stare really intently. And honestly, I refuse to sit idly by for years until they figure it out for themselves."

"It wouldn't take years," Teine scoffed.

"Totally would," Vivaldi argued. "John probably would have married a woman in the meantime."

"He's not that blind to his own feelings."

"I really feel like he might be."

"They can't be that dumb," Teine insisted.

"Regarding matter of the heart? Sherlock most definitely is. John might also be a tad emotionally constipated."

"John wears his heart on his sleeve!"

"So does Sherlock. But again, they're both blind. So. What's the plan?"

"For interfering? That's your idea."

"As if you haven't already thought about it."

Teine rolled her eyes but didn't deny the accusation. "Well, I think at first we should just nudge them."

"Nudge them?"

"We could, I don't know, convince Sherlock that he should kiss John for science."

"Or set John's bed on fire so they would have to share."

Teine looked surprised. "You just jump right to it, don't you?"

"Don't you judge me," Vivaldi huffed. "You try growing up with Sherlock Holmes without praying every day that he would get laid. The stick up his arse has been there so long I'm fairly certain it's merged with his skeletal structure."

"You could tell John Sherlock has a crush on him."

"Why not the other way around?"

"Do you really think Sherlock will make the first move?"

"Point taken," Vivaldi conceded. "Well, I suppose we have time to figure this out."

"Plenty of time," Teine agreed. "Hopefully they'll figure it out for themselves before then."

"Highly unlikely."

"True."


	9. Chapter 9

(A/N: The dragons ship it so hard.)

"Calm down, Irene," Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I promise you that I'm working on this investigation."

Irene took a breath. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's just…it's been a lot longer than normal with this case. I've got some of the other Riders breathing down my neck. As soon as these murders go public, we're going to have to make a statement, and-"

Sherlock shushed her. "Irene, this is what I called to talk to you about. I've narrowed it down."

"You have?" Sherlock could here Irene perk up over the line.

"Yes. I'm positive that our least favorite Faction is behind these killings. We're just going to have to proceed from there."

Irene sighed. "Send me your notes. Thank you for this, Sherlock. I really appreciate it. And thanks for getting John out of interrogation with the Corps. That wouldn't have ended well."

"Speaking of which, you can't allow John to continue with being indecisive."

"Indecisive? What do you mean?"

Sherlock hummed for a moment, thinking about his wording. "He's in the Resistance, he's a Rider for goodness sake, but he keeps his head down. He only acts for the cause when you give him direct orders. I don't think that he's entirely committed to it. You should suggest that he take a more active role."

Irene paused. "Make John a media Rider?"

"It's not illegal to be a member of the Resistance," Sherlock said. "And making him a public supporter of the cause will make people pay attention to him. They'll notice if he suddenly disappears. The Corps won't be able to get away with 'interrogations' like this again if they think John will start spilling all their secrets on BBC One."

Irene sighed. "I see your logic. I'll suggest it to John, but I honestly don't think that he's going to go for it. He's too protective of the people he cares about,"

"Public opinion is split. Pulling them out of the shadows will be the best way to keep them safe."

"You're oddly concerned about dearest Doc," Irene said, her voice laced with amusement. "Could it be that the great Sherlock Holmes has befriended something other than an ice breathing dragon?"

"Shut up," Sherlock said, hanging up out of spite.

"Mature," Vivaldi commented, watching from the sitting area as always.

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, getting up and going to the wall on the far side of the room. He had begun to fill it up with pictures and newspaper clippings, keeping a close eye on the activities of the Faction.

In the center of it all was a picture of an inconspicuous man in a nice suit.

"Moriarty," Sherlock sighed, glaring at the man's image. "What are you up to now?"

A few years ago a small sect formed in the Resistance, led by Jim Moriarty. He insisted that they were being too subtle about their machinations, that they were being too gentle in their protest. They should be selling the top secret intel they had managed to gather, exploiting the weaknesses they had worked so hard to discover, and killing anyone who would get in their way.

At first they were only suggestions, nudges at Irene to give certain orders, to plan certain things. It took an embarrassingly long amount of time for anyone to realize that Moriarty had been planning something more sinister.

Bombings, terror, all ending with power in a certain psychopath's hands.

The Resistance denounced the actions of what they called the Faction.

And the two had been at odds ever since.

"Oh no, you're talking to a picture again," Vivaldi sighed. "I'm getting John. You need a distraction."

… …

"I bloody hate that Faction," John grumbled, examining Sherlock's case wall.

"You weren't even a part of the Resistance when it split," Sherlock pointed out.

"Doesn't mean that I haven't run into that twat Moriarty," John said, frowning at the picture of the man in question. "God, the bugger creeps me out."

"Well, he's a bit psychotic, so I don't blame you," Sherlock said, grinning slightly. "I've been investigating him for years now, before the Faction even split off. I'm fairly certain he's responsible for several murders and disappearances over the years. Never been able to pin him, though. He's smart."

"I'll say. I can't believe some of the stuff he's managed to pull off. Twisted, too. A man like him would be better employed in the Corps. Why is he even fighting for the Resistance?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Men like Moriarty need chaos, they need a challenge. Without it, they are incredibly bored. He doesn't care for dragon rights, he's simply siding with the rebellion. If we become the new order, he would stand for the new rebellion as well. He lives to oppose. A criminal in a world of law and a freedom fighter in a world of oppression."

"Hmph," John said, not liking the light note of admiration in Sherlock's voice. "So you're sure he's behind the murders, then?"

"Fairly," Sherlock said. "I don't think he carried them out personally, of course. No, standing in the shadows is much more Moriarty's style. I think he more likely manipulated someone else into acting. I would be surprised if he managed to keep a serial killer on his payroll."

John turned away, unable to look at the man's picture anymore. "What have you got on him, then?"

"The nature of the murders, mostly," Sherlock said, turning to his notes. "I've managed to build a profile of the killer based on the little bits of information from the crime scenes. I believe we are looking for two people: one of them is overseeing, and one of them is the muscle. The first murder spoke of familiarity, Brent let them in the flat, and he was forced down and shot before getting a chance to resist. So it's someone who has been in Brent's life enough that he didn't feel the need to be on his guard around her."

"Her?"

"Yes, John. A woman, it's obvious. A woman in leading these attacks, a man is helping her carry them out. I've already said this, please keep up."

"I'm not good at the deductive leaps, Sherlock. Just ask Teine, I need a little help in order to follow along."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged. "So Brent likely knew this woman. My most plausible theory is that she marked him a few weeks in advanced. She probably seduced him in a pub, got him to take her on a couple of dates, introduced him to her male friend, possibly told Bren that he was a brother or something, and got him to invite them over for a meal, then betray him."

"Christ."

"Of course, it's also possible that they were strangers and they simply held the gun to him the entire time, never giving him the chance to kick up a big fuss. Sometimes things are really simpler than I like to pretend them to be."

John sighed. "Right."

"Although the clean state of the apartment and the contents of his fridge led me to believe that he was expecting someone that day. Since he was not discovered for a while later, that means that whoever he was expecting did not arrive or they happened to be the people who killed him."

"Sherlock, pick a theory."

"Can't toss them yet, John. Nothing is solid yet. And then there's Cortez."

"Never liked the guy, but sorry to see him go. What did you learn from him?"

"A good deal," Sherlock said, smiling slightly. "And it's nothing I will be able to explain to you."

"Sherlock!"

"I've been studying the patterns of the Faction since they formed, John," Sherlock reminded him. "I know every mistake they make and every method they use. This was one of their crimes. I can't even explain it at this point, I can only feel it."

John crossed his arms but nodded. "A gut feeling then, yeah? I can respect that."

Sherlock scowled. "I would never base an investigation on something so pedestrian as a 'gut feeling.' These are highly complex deductions, John!"

"I call bullshit," John said cheekily. "But I will leave you to it. I'm finally going to move my things over from my old flat. I'll be seeing you a little bit later."

Sherlock waved him off. "I'm busy anyway. Go away."

… …

"I'm just going to tell John that Sherlock's into him," Vivaldi decided. "Because I've thought about doing this with finesse, and it's just not going to work."

Teine rolled her eyes. "You called in John to talk to Sherlock when he was on a case. Did you really think that was going to work?"

Vivaldi did the dragon equivalent of a shrug. "Sherlock had just figured some things out. He wanted to show off and I was sort of hoping that John would be dazzled by the entire thing."

Teine scoffed. "John is not so easily 'dazzled.'"

"Sorry to break your bubble, love, but John's a bit like a child with something shiny," Vivaldi said apologetically. "He gets awestruck when he sees something as admittedly fantastic as Sherlock on a deductive streak and is verbally appreciative. Sherlock soaks up the praise like a really conceited sponge. I was hoping that some discussion on the Faction would, I don't know, break the ice."

"Idiot," Teine declared. "You need to set the mood. John is a romantic at heart. Sherlock should…I don't know, take him to an Italian restaurant with candle light or something."

"Sherlock would never in a million years do something like that."

"He would if he wanted John to like him."

"Well, he hasn't done that yet, so we have to think of something else."

"Quite right," Teine agreed. "Hopefully we won't need to arrange it so that one of them has to rescue the other from peril."

"Though if that doesn't work, I don't know what will."

"Too true," Teine agreed. "Too true."

… …

John finally finished moving in when the Woman called him.

He answered and listened, making a few noncommittal noises and she proposed her idea.

When it was over, he hung up and stared at the screen for a long time.

John put down his mobile, thinking over the conversation.

_"Being a media Rider will keep you safe," she had said. _

_"Yes," he sighed. "And endanger everyone else that I know." _

He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

To become a media Rider? To stand before all the cameras and denounce the Aerial Corps for what it was? It wasn't as though he could be the inside man anymore. The Corps was suspicious of him. At best, they would call Teine back into action and the dragon would either have to go along with it or go AWOL.

And knowing Teine, she wouldn't hesitate to go AWOL.

"I think you should consider it," Teine said, when he told her. "I wouldn't mind it. I would be able to do more, certainly. Although I suppose that we can't get away with any of the more morally ambiguous missions anymore. Not if people are keeping an eye on us."

"And it would force Sherlock and Vivaldi into the spotlight as well," John continued. "We wouldn't want to push that on them. Especially since Vivaldi is an illegally owned dragon."

However, when John brought it up to Sherlock, the man lit up like a Christmas tree and clapped his hands. "I think that sounds like a fantastic idea, John!"

John frowned. "You are aware that this will affect you if I'm to continue to live here?"

Sherlock mirrored his frown. "Of course I realize that. Who do you think I am? I realize everything. And I don't particularly mind. The media attention might bring me some more interesting cases, unrelated to the Resistance. Not that I'm getting too bored with the Resistance, but it _would _be nice to shake it up now and again with solving kidnappings and bank heists and such."

John turned to Vivaldi for help, but received none.

"I don't necessarily think that it's a bad idea," the dragon said. "I think that you are in danger, playing on both sides as the moment, and since your cover has been compromised, this is the best way to ensure your safety and the safety of those around you."

"What about my contacts in the Corps?"

"Burn them," Vivaldi said with a shrug. "Not literally, of course. But give them fair warning, tell them to erase any signs that they had contacted you, and cut off further contact. Face it, John. The Corps already suspects that you're up to something, so they aren't safe anyway. And that will only get worse the more you utilize them as a resource."

John sighed but nodding, seeing the logic. "I'll think about it, but I'm not thrilled by the idea."

"Really? I couldn't tell," Sherlock said sarcastically. "It's not like you're trying to talk your way out of it in any way possible."

"Oy! I'm just trying to…tie up any loose ends if I do decide to do it."

"Mmhm."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did."

"I hummed, that doesn't count."

"You hummed sarcastically."

"Still not words."

"…"

"…"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

… …

"Did you see the banter?" Teine asked Vivaldi the next time they met to conspire outside. "I saw the banter."

"I was in the room," Vivaldi assured her. "I saw the banter. It's driving me insane. We have to get them together soon or I'm going to freeze the entire city."

"I'm going to say something to John," Teine said decisively. "These idiots really _do _need our help."

"What are you going to say?"

"I don't know yet, I'll just start talking and hopefully I'll figure it out as I go along."

… …

Teine was slowly sauntering up to John. He frowned. This was never a good thing.

"What do you want?" he asked without preamble.

She looked affronted. "Why do you assume that I want something?" She gave him big amber eyes, the picture of innocence, but her wings twitched closer to her body, a little tick she had whenever she was lying.

"What do you want?" he repeated flatly.

"I was just thinking…" Teine said, trailing off and casually inspecting a talon. "Sherlock's a handsome man."

John froze, definitely not expecting this line of thinking. "What?"

"He's handsome, for a human," she continued. "I'm sure you've noticed."

John stayed silent, refusing to admit that he _had _noticed. Of course he had noticed? Who wouldn't have?

Teine seemed to be waiting for a response, so John sighed. "What are you talking about?"

"It's just that," she said, sounding far too innocent for John's liking, "I've been talking to him a lot recently, and I think that he might be interested."

Now John was confused. "Interested in what?"

Teine rolled her eyes and let out a little puff of smoke. "Interested in you, dummy! I'm trying to be subtle here, and you're just as clueless as ever."

"Sweetheart, you're as subtle as a gun," John reminded her. "And you're also vastly mistaken. What would a man like Sherlock want with a man like me?"

"Don't be so self-effacing!" Teine scolded. "You're attractive enough for a human. I think? I can't really tell, to be honest."

"Wow, I feel so complimented," John said drily. "If you're quite done, I have things to do."

John walked off and Teine cursed.

She went back into conference with Vivaldi.

"He didn't take the bait?" Vivaldi asked. "What did you say?"

"Just that Sherlock was handsome and interested in John," Teine said defensively. "It's not my fault that John has the self-confidence of a pre-teen human female."

"I'll try with Sherlock," Vivaldi promised, slithering away to do just that.

… …

"I think that John's attracted to you," Vivaldi said bluntly, knowing that it was better to approach Sherlock directly with such things.

"I've noticed," Sherlock said vaguely, peering through his microscope. "Pupil dilation, increased heart rate and respiration rate. I'm glad you've noticed the signs as well. Perhaps we'll make a proper dragon detective of you yet."

Vivaldi paused. "Wait, you've noticed?"

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed.

"Then why haven't you done anything about it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Vivaldi. I'm married to my work. I don't have time for such trivial things as romance."

"I think he could make you happy."

"That I sincerely doubt," Sherlock said, an edge of sadness in his voice. "What John is experiencing is merely superficial attraction. He barely knows me. My…difficult personality has yet to make its full impact. Once it does, we'll be lucky if they continue to live here."

"I think John is better than that," Vivaldi argued.

Sherlock looked away from his microscope for the first time and gave Vivaldi one of the saddest smiles he had ever seen. "I've learned, at this point, that it is better not to hope for such things."

… …

"We're not doing very well," Teine complained.

"I know," Vivaldi commiserated. "We're just going to have to up our game."

"Right," Teine said briskly. "I'll work on boosting John's self-esteem, you work on repairing years of Sherlock's psychological damage."

"Hey! My job seems a lot harder."

Teine did the dragon's equivalent to a shrug. "He's _your _human."

Vivaldi conceded that was true and tried to figure out how he was going to make this work.


	10. Chapter 10

John watched Sherlock comb through files upon files of information.

He truly was amazing, the way he was able to turn such disconnected, seemingly unrelated points of data into a pattern.

Just…astounding.

Then John realized he was staring like a creeping creeper who creeps. He hurriedly turned around and pretended to be doing something else.

Then he realized he was in the kitchen.

What could a person pretend to do in a kitchen?

Ah, make tea.

John pretended to start preparing tea.

"Tea?" Sherlock said, poking his head in. "I'll have some as well, thanks."

John sighed. Now he really had to make tea.

He made tea.

This was, like, the seventh time this had happened.

He had never drunk so much tea until he had to pretend he wasn't staring at Sherlock Holmes.

… …

"Got it!" Sherlock exclaimed, accidentally knocking over several stacks of paper in his enthusiasm. He stared at the mess for a moment before shrugging and deciding to leave it be.

"What did you get?" John asked, coming in with the tea.

Sherlock accepted his cup while he excitedly explained. "I've been looking up known members of the Faction, trying to figure out if there was any connection to William Brent. Remember, I believed that familiarity would be key. And here, I've found it!"

"Brent's girlfriend, then?" John asked.

"Nope!" Sherlock said cheerily. "No, I was completely wrong about that. Even better." Sherlock picked up the file in question and handed it to John. "Her name is Victoria Gillespie. She went to Uni with Brent."

"So?"

"She went on the same hiking trip that Brent did, up in the Alps, where the eggs were found." Sherlock smiled. "And in the last few months she's been a very active member of the faction. That's too big a coincidence, the universe doesn't set things up that conveniently."

"But why would she want to kill him?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I have no idea. Care to find out?"

… …

Victoria Gillespie lived in a small flat.

And she seemed to know who they were as soon as they buzzed her intercom.

She let them up anyway.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson," she said, opening the door. She was a tiny blonde woman in her early twenties. Her eyes were a wide, watery blue and stared up Sherlock without any expression. "Mr. Moriarty told me to be expecting you soon." As she spoke she led them to her sitting area, and gestured for them to sit across from her. "I think he wanted me to take care of you." Here she gestured to a loaded pistol on the side table. Both men had zeroed in on it as soon as they had stepped in.

John's hand was at the small of his back, resting on the shape of his own handgun.

"Is that your intention?" Sherlock asked, his face betraying nothing.

Victoria looked uncertain. She didn't bit her lip or look away, or give any other obvious tells. She seemed to sway where she sat, torn between picking up the gun and remaining in her seat.

"I don't think so," she said at last, her voice flat. "It wasn't my intention to kill Will, either. Not until he asked me to."

"And yet?"

"And yet, that's what happened," she said quietly. "I confess. Maybe I'll be able to sleep at night if I admit to it."

John noticed for the first time that, beneath a heavy layer of make-up, there were dark bags under her eyes.

"Do you want to tell us what happened?" John asked gently.

She nodded, but she didn't say anything.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you want to tell us what happened at some point in the near future?"

She cleared her throat. John noticed for the second time just how small she was. Barely five feet tall, and he was pretty sure he had carried guns that were heavier than she was.

"Will and I weren't really friends," she started. "We knew each other in Uni, and we had some friends in common, but our paths didn't cross often, you know? I knew who he was by sight, but I had only spoken to him a handful of times."

Sherlock made a 'hurry up this is a boring story' gesture with his hands.

"I didn't know he was even going to be on the trip," she continued. "A bunch of us were going. We all saved up for it, working shitty jobs during the holidays to do it. We'd been planning it for years. And then, after we graduated, we decided just to go for it. We went to the Alps, to ski, to hike, to climb. It was a lot of fun." She smiled slightly here, the first emotion to crack through her mask.

"Will and I were the only ones who were really into climbing," she continued.

John gave her a skeptical look. She was pretty twiggy, he didn't really see her as a climber.

She caught the look and offered a sad smile. "Will had a heart condition. It made him want to run headlong into danger and do everything people said he shouldn't, but it was a legitimate concern. His friends refused to let him go climbing alone. He looked devastated, so I pretended to be an avid climber. He was cute and a nice enough guy…I decided I might as well get to know him better. I think he knew that, too, because he didn't push me into doing something difficult. We mostly just walked up where we could. I stumbled and fell down part of the ridge," she continued after a slight hesitation. "It was only a few feet, I was completely fine, just bruised. But I found a big nest of dragon eggs, just under a little overhang, sheltered from the snow. When Will came down to help me, he immediately checked the eggs. Two of them still had heart beats, the other three had died from the cold."

She finally started picking up steam. She stopped hesitating between sentences as the rest of the story poured forth.

They didn't know how the eggs got there, but they figured they had likely been abandoned by the brood mare. It took the two of them hours, but they lugged the two surviving eggs back to the ski lodge, ready to warm them up and try to keep them alive.

Will had wanted to call the Aerial Corps right away, firmly believing that the experts would know what to do. Victoria had protested, remembering some of the rumors she had heard about the Corps.

The Resistance and the Riders, she figured, had to exist for a reason. They wouldn't be there if the Corps ran smoothly.

Will was stubborn, saying that there were less and less dragons in the world every year, and that each one was important. They had to save the eggs at whatever cost.

They alerted the Corps after a few days, when it appeared that the eggs were going to survive. Victoria hadn't been happy about that decision, and pleaded for the little dragon inside to hatch and get away before it was too late.

Hours before the Corps arrived (having had a huge jurisdiction argument with the Swiss Aerial Corps about who the dragons were going to belong to, they took a very long time to reach the lodge) both of the dragons hatched.

Both were males, and each attached themselves to one of their rescuers. The one who chose Will was strong and hardy. The one that chose Victoria was struggling to breathe, but he was still alive. He was too weak to go out into the cold, though, so Victoria couldn't run away with him.

When the Corps arrived, they were furious to see that the dragons had already bonded with their humans. On the fear of separation, both Victoria and William volunteered to do exactly what John had done, to join the Corps and keep their dragons.

"Will was a big guy," Victoria continued. "Despite his wonky heart, he was strong. The officers there sort of appraised him, like he was an animal. He got a nod, but I…neither I nor Weiss made the cut."

"Weiss?"

"I named Weiss," she explained. "The hatchling. We weren't considered strong enough." Victoria shrugged. "I honestly don't know if Weiss would have lived long. But they didn't…they didn't even give him the chance."

John felt a stab of sympathy for the girl. "You mean, they…"

"Mercy killings are the Corps' worst kept secret," Sherlock recited. "Sometimes it's best to put them out of their misery."

"He wasn't some mindless animal!" she finally burst, getting to her feet and running a frantic hand through her hair. "He wasn't a lame horse to be shot. He was a sentient, rational, thinking, feeling creature. He looked at me with so much _trust_. He _hatched _for me."

She sat back down, her eyes wide and pleading. "Do you know what that _meant?_"

"We do," John said, softly. "Our dragons did the same for us."

She nodded. "Then you understand. It was like they ripped my child from my arms. Weiss was whining and crying, William's hatchling was doing the same thing. But they let the other dragon live. William kept his baby. He stood by and let them take mine away. He didn't even protest. He just went with the officers from the Corps, prepared to do whatever was necessary to sort out his mess and keep his dragon." She sneered, saying, "And when he left, he had the nerve to turn to me and say, 'They know what they're doing, Vicky. Maybe it's better this way.' And then they were gone. I never found out what happened to Weiss, if they put him quietly to sleep or just dragged him to the woods and shot him in the head."

She looked back up at them, her expression back to being blank and in control. "Mr. Moriarty somehow heard about what happened. He contacted me after we returned and asked if I wanted to join his little section of the Resistance, if I wanted to make the Corps pay for what they did to me and Weiss."

John just closed his eyes. Because he knew. He knew what it was like to be bonded to a dragon, to have them hatch for you. Of course she would have wanted vengeance. She would have lashed out at anything, if it bore the empty promise of easing the ache.

"It started with small things," she continued. "Week and weeks of doing tiny tasks, little things that didn't make me uncomfortable. Then he would ask for something else, something just a little bit bigger, something just a little bit worse. Then there was always something after that, and something after that…until I wasn't really questioning his orders anymore. When he told me that we had to kill Will, that doing so would really hurt the Corps…all I thought about was how he just stood by when they took Weiss from me. That he probably stood by when they killed Weiss, when they killed my baby. And I…I knew that I could do it. Moriarty hooked me up with this other guy, a real big, mean looking guy, and he told me what to do."

"How did you do it, then?" Sherlock asked, his eyes bright with interest once more.

"He was tracking Will's schedule. I 'bumped' into him a few weeks before…I did it. I hated it, I hated every second of it, making him think that there weren't any hard feelings between us, making him think that I wanted to be friends again. We spent a lot of time together, and all he talked about was his dragon. He _gushed _about it. I just wanted to strangle him every single time he did."

Victoria took a deep breath, visibly calming herself. "So I didn't feel too bad about killing him. I still don't feel bad about killing him. When we made lunch plans and I showed up at the apartment, there was no hesitation in betraying him. I didn't realize until after…I didn't realize that I was doing the same thing to his dragon that the Corps did to me." She looked up at the two men. "And I feel _very _bad about that."

"What about Cortez?" Sherlock asked as soon as there was a pause.

Victoria flinched at that. "Okay, that was just altogether wrong."

"It's good that you feel that way about murder," John said dryly. "What happened?"

"I was afraid to go to prison," Victoria said. "And Mr. Moriarty said that he would turn me in unless I kept doing jobs for him." She gestured to herself. "I'm not exactly a likely suspect for a hit, am I? He said I did a good job with Will and that there was another person he wanted me to shoot. Vince came with me again."

"Vince?" John asked.

"The big man," Victoria clarified. "There weren't any subtleties this time. We just forced our way in. Vince held him down and I pulled the trigger." A few silent tears ran down her face. "I didn't even know who he was. I just…I didn't want to go to jail."

"And now?" John asked. "You are aware that you'll be going to jail for what you've told us, correct?"

"I know," Victoria said, nodding. "I'm less afraid of prison than I am of what Mr. Moriarty will do to me when…"

"When?" Sherlock prompted.

"When I don't kill Mr. Watson," she finished.

There was a huge silence.

"So...you're the next hit," Sherlock said, looking at John like he was impressed.

"I'm not thrilled about that," John informed him. "Why? Why would he want to kill me, I'm in the Resistance."

"Not common knowledge," Sherlock reminded him. "You're a war hero who is legally keeping a dragon confined in an urban space. People pay attention to you, they notice you. Killing you would be making a very big point."

"But what would it accomplish?!" John asked Sherlock incredulously. He turned to Victoria and quickly added, "Thank you for not wanting to kill me, by the way." He turned back to Sherlock. "What would that accomplish?!"

"Chaos," Sherlock answered. "You're the biggest double agent there is. If you were murdered, the Resistance would assume that the Corps did it, and the Corps would assume that the Resistance did it. There would be all out chaos, the war that Moriarty has been waiting for."

"He wants a war?" John asked, feeling ten steps behind, as always.

"Men like Moriarty always want war," Sherlock said dismissively. "Huge distractions, wars. You can cover up a lot of crimes in their chaos. Moriarty could make himself a very powerful man."

"He's already very powerful," Victoria interrupted quietly. "More so than I think you realize. He is running a lot more than the Faction."

Sherlock blinked at her, as if he had forgotten she was there.

"Well, this has been enlightening," Sherlock said suddenly, getting to his feet. "The police are already on their way. Please don't try to run, you'll only make things more difficult for yourself. Please remember, in all your official statements, you were a member of the Faction, acting under Faction order, not the Resistance. The Resistance is a mostly peaceful organization focused on promoting legal reformation, blahblahblahblahblah."

"You're doing the right thing," John said sincerely, giving the girl a smile. "I have a few contacts in the Corps. They'll tell Brent's dragon what happened."

Victoria nodded. "That's good," she said sadly. "At least he'll know why. It won't help, though. The knowing. I never really does, does it?"

… …

"That was emotionally exhausting," John declared as soon as they left the building.

"Was it?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe not for you, but I just found out that there's a hit on me, thank you very much. I think that settles it. I've got to come out as a Resistance member. I refuse to be used as one of Moriarty's pawns."

"Good thinking," Sherlock said. He hailed a cab and, after a few attempts, one finally stopped for them. "Although, you must know that I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

It was said so offhand, so casually, that John wasn't entirely sure that it was said at all. He just stood there, blushing, trying to think of a smooth reply, when Sherlock ordered him to get into the cab already and the moment passed.

"Thank you," John finally said, a bit awkwardly. "I hope you realize I'd do the same."

"Of course," Sherlock said breezily, but he shot John a small smile. "What are flatmates for?"

"Give it up Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "We don't live in a flat. We live in a warehouse. We're warehouse-mates."

"That's not a thing, John."

"It is now."

… …

Sherlock locked himself in his room once they returned home.

He was getting too attached.

He musn't let himself get too attached.

There was no way that John was going to stay with him.

Why would he, when everyone else had left?


End file.
